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GYPSY 


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THE  GYPSY   SERIES 


GYPSY'S  YEAR 


AT 


THE  GOLDEN  CRESCENT 


BY 

ELIZABETH   STUART   PHELPS 

AUTHOR  OF  "GYPSY  BREYNTON,"   "GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 
"GYPSY'S  SOWING  AND  REAPING,"  ETC. 


ttf)  Illustrations 
BY    MARY  F AIRMAN   CLARK 


NEW  YORK: 
DODD,    MEAD    &    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867, 

BY  GRAVES  &  YOUNG, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  for  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts 

Copyright,  181)4, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  i8()7, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   I.  MOM 

How  IT  LOOKED  ON  MONDAY I 

CHAPTER  II. 
How  IT  LOOKED  ON  TUESDAY ao 

CHAPTER   III. 
DRAMATIS  PERSONS •    .    .    •      39 

CHAPTER   IV. 
THE  EVERGREEN  SISTERS 50 

CHAPTER   V. 
GYPSY  UNDER  PECULIAR  CIRCUMSTANCES      ,     .      80 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Is  SHE  A  LADY? '  .    »     106 

CHAPTER  VII. 
HOME  AND  BACK  AGAIN I3S 


fV  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VIII.  PAGE 

COMPOSITIONS     ............    141 

CHAPTER   IX. 
INTO  MISCHIEF  ............    1 


CHAPTER  X. 
A  MASQUERADE      ........     •    .    .     169 

CHAPTER  XI. 

"  BOUNCING-UP  "  ...........      197 

CHAPTER  XII. 
HUSH!    ...............     «I4 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
BORDERLAND  ..........    ...    JW5 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
NUMBER  ONE     .......        ...»     tji 


riT  LOOKED- 
•ON- MONDAY..*! 


ATS,  feathers,  shoes,  ribbons, 
bonnets,  slippers,  dresses, 
boots,  aprons,  collars,  cuffs, 
laces,  nets,  cloaks,  sacks, 
shawls,  cassocks,  bracelets, 
brooches,  rings,  rubbers, 

rubber-boots,  stockings,  veils,  gloves,  mittens, 
furs,  fans,  pictures,  slates,  books,  paper,  pencils, 
ink,  needles,  thread,  thimbles,  chalk,  boxes, 
bags,  baskets,  a  big  trunk  and  a  little  trunk,— 
Gypsy  down  in  the  middle  of  the  whole. 

Her  mother  came  slowly  upstairs  with  a  bal- 
moral  and   two  dresses  over  one  arm,   and  a 


bandbox  In  the  other,  opened  the  door, 
stood  transfixed. 

"Oh,  walk  in,  Mrs.  Breynton,  walk  in! 
Don't  be  bashful.  I  'm  quite  ready  to  receive 
calls,  —  not,  as  you  may  say,  exactly  in  full 
dress;  but  then  —  '* 

She  was,  by  the  way,  in  her  white  petticoat 
and  little  red  flannel  dressing-sack,  with  her 
hair  all  down  on  her  shoulders ;  but  velvet  and 
Valenciennes  could  not  have  made  her  look  so 
pretty. 

"  Well,  Gypsy,  this  is  confusion  worse  con« 
founded !  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?  " 

"  Packing,  to  be  sure." 

Mrs.  Breynton  put  the  dresses  on  the  bed 
and  the  bandbox  under  it,  and  sat  down  to 
laugh. 

"Why!  what's  the  joke?"  said  Gypsy, 
pushing  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  and  putting 
her  chin  into  both  her  hands.  "  If  ever  any- 
body  packed  hard  I  that  same  's  myself,  in  the 
words  of  Miss  Maloney !  Did  n't  I  empty 
every  solitary  drawer  right  out,  —  look  in  the 


bureau  and  see,  —  and  have  n't  I  cleared  the 
nails  in  the  closet,  and  then  did  n't  I  take  a 
whisk  broom  and  brush  off  every  individual 
thing  from  those  horrid  old  wardrobe  shelves, 
and  keep  standing  on  tiptoe  and  falling  down 
and  just  rasping  the  tip  end  of  my  nose  on  the 
edges.,  and  aren't  they  all  here  'promiscuous'? 
I  thought  it  was  such  a  convenient  way!  You 
see,  you  won't  have  to  keep  running  around  to 
look  for  things —  Why,  what  are  you  doing?" 

Mrs.  Breynton  had  busied  herself  during  this 
long  sentence  in  rapidly  sorting  the  mette, 
putting  cotton  and  linen  in  piles,  hanging 
dresses  across  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  laying 
laces  and  ribbons  together  carefully  upon  the 
pillows. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Gypsy,  with  an  accent. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  that  was  the  proper 
way." 

"I  see,  I  see,  said  the  blind  man;  I  see 
clearly.  Now,  mother,  don't  you  tell,  will  you  ? 
but  after  it  was  all  poured  out,  I  didrit  know 
—  exactly  —  how  I  ever  was  going  to  pick  out 


one  thing  without  picking  out  another  thing, 
you  know.  Now,  if  that  is  n't  charming  I 
Why,  they'll  pack  themselves." 

That  they  did  not,  however,  exactly  pack 
themselves,  the  gathering  twilight  testified, 
which,  falling,  found  the  two  still  hard  at  work. 

"  They  won't  begin  to  go  into  the  large 
trunk,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  pausing,  with  a 
folded  cloak  upon  her  arm.  "  I  did  hope  they 
might." 

"Oh,  it's  just  as  well.  Joy  wrote  me  last 
week  that  boarding-school  girls  always  had 
two  trunks.  You  know  she 's  been  at  Miss 
Haine's,  and  she  ought  to  know.  Besides,  she 
said  she  had  a  splendid  time.  Where 's  my 
blue  merino?" 

"  Here,  in  the  left-hand  corner.  I  hope  that 
cologne  is  n't  too  near  it;  here,  I  '11  move  it  a 
little;  you  see?  * 

"Now,  where 's  my  spotted  veil?  Oh,  here; 
and  my  kid  gloves?  Now  I  wonder  if  it  isn't 
time  to  put  in  the  bonnet,  mother.  I  wish  —  * 

"Well?" 


"What  if  that  crown  should  look  countrified? 
Miss  Jones  has  such  a  talent  for  discovering  the 
latest  antediluvian  fashion." 

"  Help  me  fold  this  skirt,  Gypsy." 

Gypsy,  looking  up  sidewise  through  her  hair, 
saw  that  her  mother  had  something  to  say,  but 
not  just  then. 

"Where  is  that  pair  of  merino  stockings? 
Why,  Gypsy!" 

"  I  know  it  —  I  did  mean  to.  I  thought  they 
were  mended  as  much  as  could  be." 

"Hand  me  my  work-basket — on  the  table. 
Now  thread  me  a  needle,  please,  as  fast  as  you 
know  how;  it  is  growing  dark." 

"  And  you  're  all  tired  out !  "  said  Gypsy,  in 
a  little  spasm  of  compunction. 

"  What  is  going  to  become  of  your  stockings 
at  school,  Gypsy?"  asked  Mrs.  Breynton,  sew 
ing  away  with  her  quiet  smile. 

"  Mother  Breynton,  that  is  a  solemn  ques 
tion  1  " 

Mrs.    Breynton    folded    the    stockings    and 
stuffed  them  tightly  into  a  corner  of  the  trunk, 
i 


and  Gypsy  shook  back  her  hair,  and  put  her 
chin  into  her  hands  once  more. 

"Come,  mother,  give  me  a  little  lecture, 
please.  It  will  be  so  long  before  I  can  have 
another." 

"I  believe  you  know  my  lecture  by  heart, 
Gypsy ;  you  Ve  heard  it  ever  since  you  were  a 
baby,  and  there  is  only  one  word  to  it" 

"  Hum-m  !  "  said  Gypsy,  slowly,  and  put  on 
the  cover  to  her  collar-box  in  silence.  She 
knew  what  the  word  was.  If  you  do  not,  you 
must  guess. 

"About  the  bonnet,"  —  Gypsy  dropped  the 
collar-box,  and  came  and  sat  down  on  the  floor 
just  below  her  mother's  knee,  —  "  I  Ve  done  the 
best  I  could  for  you,  in  the  way  of  clothing, 
but  I  think  it  more  than  probable  that  the 
majority  of  the  girls  will  be  more  fashionably 
dressed.  It  is  best  to  look  at  the  matter  just 
as  it  is." 

Gypsy  nodded. 

"  Anything  which  a  little  altering  can  bring 
into  style,  why,  you  know  I  shall  have  all  youi 


vacation  in  which  to  do.  As  for  the  rest, 
dear  —  " 

"As  for  the  rest,"  interrupted  Gypsy,  with 
another  nod,  "  if  I  minded  it,  I  should  deserve 
to  be  toted  off  to  Siberia  in  a  bandbox!  If  I 
jump  on  the  little  trunk,  would  you  lock  it, 
please?" 

"  Besides,"  she  observed  in  a  comfortable 
sort  of  undertone,  as  she  tugged  at  the  straps, 
"  if  they  do  wear  high  crowns,  I  could  get 
some  little  pieces  of  velvet  and  poke  it  up 
myself." 

Gypsy,  like  most  girls,  seldom  swallowed 
undiluted  morsels  without  a  little  secret  sugar 
of  her  own. 

"  You  don't  suppose  it  is  possible  that  we 
have  everything  in!  Where's  the  circular? 
Let  me  see.  '  Young  ladies  are  expected  to 
bring  a  counterpane,  four  towels  marked,  three 
pillow-cases  markedt  a  napkin  ring  marked^  an 
umbrella,  rubbers,  waterproof  —  all  right  I 
do  believe  we  've  come  to  the  end." 

"Yes;  one  or  two  things  drying  by  the 
-  t 


kitchen  fire,  and  then  the  dressing-case  in  the 
morning;  that  is  all,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs. 
Breynton,  thinking.  Gypsy  jumped  on  the 
large  trunk  to  see  if  it  would  lock  easily, 
gathered  the  pieces  of  newspaper  and  old  box 
covers  and  old  gloves  with  which  the  floor  was 
strewn,  into  a  heap  for  Patty  to  sweep  away, 
and  then  came  and  sat  down  again  by  her 
mother's  knee. 

Mrs.  Breynton  began  to  twist  about  her 
finger  a  lock  of  the  bright  hair  that  fell  about 
the  child's  face ;  it  fell  so  low  as  nearly  to  hide 
it;  besides,  it  was  now  quite  dark. 

"  Sober,  Gypsy?" 

"  No,  ma'am  !  " 

"  Then  you  expect  to  have  a  nice  time?  " 

"  I  guess  I  do !  I  Ve  been  just  crazy  to 
go  to  college  ever  since  we  packed  Tom  off 
Freshman;  and  if  the  horrid  old  men  won't 
let  girls  have  colleges,  —  you  see  /  don't  call  a 
place  where  they  learn  how  to  dance  and  play 
and  sew  and  talk  French  a  college, —  why, 
then,  boarding-school  is  the  next  best  thing,  and 


I'm  in  for  it,  thorough ,  as  —  who  was  it? 
Henry  the  First?  used  to  say  in  that  funny 
little  English  History  with  the  magenta  cover." 

"  Gypsy !     It  is  high  time  for  your  education 
to  be  looked  after;   that  is  evident.     I  would 
suggest,  by  the  way,  that  you  write  a  composi 
tion  on  Strafford,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  well !  why  is  n't  one  name  as  gooef  as 
another?  It's  all  the  same  in  Dutch,  as  Tom 
says  to  me.  Well,  anyway,  I  am  going  tG 
have  a  good  time." 

"  And  not  be  homesick  a  bit  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am  !  — that  is  to  say  —  n-no-oo." 

Gypsy  was  particularly  engaged  at  that  mo 
ment  in  wondering  why  she  had  never  noticed 
what  a  soft  hand  her  mother  had,  and  in 
thinking  that  it  must  be  time  to  light  the 
lamps. 

Mrs.  Breynton's  touch  rested  a  moment  still 
upon  the  bright  falling  hair,  and  it  fell  lower 
down  about  Gypsy  s  face. 

"  Gypsy,  I  Ve  been  thinking  —  I  could  tell 
you  much  about  this  new  school  life,  but  if  it 

9 


looks  so  bright,  I  don't  know,  —  I  never  could 
even  bear  to  wake  you  up  in  the  morning  if 
you  were  having  a  pretty  dream." 

"  But  if  you  did  n't,  I  should  lose  my 
breakfast,  you  know,''  said  Gypsy,  sittii.g  up 
straight. 

"  Yet  if  you  could  learn  to  wake  yourself  up, 
it  would  be  better  for  you." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  I  am  going  to  have  a 
nice  time?  " 

"The  best  -of  times,  and  the  most  dan 
gerous-" 

Gypsy  sat  up  straighter,  and  looked  intensely 
incredulous. 

44  It  is  a  little  hard  to  let  you  go  out  of  my 
arms,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  slowly,  "  right  out 
all  at  once;  yet,  letting  you  go,  I  must  give 
you  a  wide  sweep.  In  a  certain  sense  you 
must  live  without  me." 

Gypsy  gave  her  a  squeeze,  and  said  she'd 
see  about  that. 

"  I  think,  after  all,"  said  her  mother,  after  a 
moment's  thought,  "  that  I  have  but  one  piece 


of  advice  to  give ;  it  rests  with  you  to  tit  par- 
ticulars  to  it." 

"  But  what  is  the  advice?  " 

"  That  you  sit  down  every  night  a  few 
minutes,  and  tell  me,  in  your  heart,  just  as  if  we 
were  sitting  together  as  we  are  now —  " 

"  You  stroking  my  hair,"  interrupted  Gypsy. 

"  I  stroking  your  hair,  if  you  like,  and  tell 
me  what  has  happened  since  morning,  and  what 
you  suppose  will  happen  to-morrow." 

"Want  me  to  promise?"  asked  Gypsy,  after 
some  thinking. 

"  Just  as  you  like." 

"  Well,  I  '11  promise ;  it  will  be  a  sort  of 
string,  you  know;  a  little  piece  of  sewing-silk. 
I  never  tried  to  break  sewing-silk  in  my  life 
without  cutting  my  fingers.  Mother,  you  have 
something  else  to  say;  it's  so  dark  I  can't  see 
much  of  you  but  just  your  eyes,  and  I  know  by 
the  way  they  're  looking  out  of  the  window." 

"  One  thing  more,  yes.  I  want  you  to  have 
a  little  talk  every  night  with  Somebody  else 
besides  me,  dear." 


Just  at  that  moment  Winnie  began  to  rin^ 
the  tea-bell,  and  he  made  such  a  noise  about  it 
that  Gypsy  did  not  try  to  answer,  but  her 
mother  felt  in  the  dark  two  soft  pats  on  her 

hand    which     she 
seemed  to  think  were 
as    good    as    words. 
V"    At  least  she   caught 
her      up     in      her 
arms    and    gave   her 
a    very    long   kiss. 

"  Oo-oo-ooh  !  What  a 
racket  that  little  scamp  is 
making!  I  'm  going  to  write 
the  very  first  night  I  get 
there,  and  here  I  am  in  my 
sack  with  every  solitary  hair 
flying,  and  you  '11  be  all 
through  supper,  and  I  'm  not  going  to  be 
homesick  a  bit,  you  know,  and  would  you 
mind  wringing  Winnie's  neck  when  you  go 
downstairs?  "  said  Gypsy,  a  little  incoherently. 
It  was  unaccountable,  to  be  sure;  but  as  she 


flew  about  in  the  dark,  whisking  her  hair  into 
her  net,  tossing  on  her  dress,  losing  all  her 
combs  behind  the  bureau,  and  dropping  the 
soap  into  the  water-pitcher,  she  certainly  did 
wonder  if  Joy  could  possibly  have  made  a  mis 
take  about  boarding-school.  But  that  was  only 
for  a  minute. 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  pleasant  tea- 
table;  and  I  believe  that  was  what  Mrs. 
Breynton's  tea-table  always  was.  Everything 
about  it  seemed  to  fit,  like  the  notes  of  a 
beautiful  tune.  In  the  first  place  there  seemed 
to  be  a  tacit  understanding  that  people  should 
say  something  pleasant,  or  not  talk  at  alL 
No  cross  words  ever  came  from  behind  the 
teacups,  and,  as  a  consequence,  a  cross  word 
from  anywhere  else  made  such  a  jar  that  it 
was  as  much  as  one's  peace  of  mind  was  worth 
for  an  evening.  Then  the  silver  was  always 
bright,  and  the  warm  colours  of  the  plaided 
supper-cloth,  and  Mrs.  Breynton  used  to  wear 
a  bit  of  ribbon  or  fine  lace  with  her  "  afternoon 
dress,"  and  the  room  was  flooded  with  the 


soft  light  of  porcelain-shaded  lamps.  Besides^ 
all  the  work  and  worry  and  lessons  of  the  day 
were  over,  and  there  was  nothing  but  reading 
and  play  and  chatter  to  come. 

It  was  very  pleasant,  that  night,  and  so 
Gypsy  thought,  when  she  had  exchanged  the 
red  flannel  sack  for  her  pretty  gray  travelling- 
dress  with  the  blue  trimmings,  — the  only  dress 
now  outside  of  the  trunks,  —  and  coming  in 
just  as  her  father  was  asking  the  blessing, 
stopped  a  moment  in  the  doorway  and  looked 
around,  —  very  pleasant.  But  then,  she  was  so 
happy  that  night  that  almost  anything  would 
have  looked  pleasant.  Her  eyes  were  dancing 
behind  their  long  lashes,  her  cheeks  were  afire 
with  excitement,  and  as  for  her  dimple,  it 
seemed  to  twinkle  all  over  her  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  laying 
down  his  fork,  "  you  don't  look  as  if  your 
heart  were  breaking." 

"  Not  so  much  as  a  crack,  sir.     Why,  griddle- 
cakes  !       Mother,   you    blessed   little   woman J 
If  that  is  n't  just  like  you  !  " 
14 


•'  I  thought  they  would  taste  good,  your  last 
night,  dear;  here,  Patty  has  just  brought  these 
in  hot.  Sugar,  or  maple?  Winnie,  pass  her 
the  butter.  See,  they  are  done  brown  just  as 
you  like  them." 

She  does  not  say  that  she  has  been  out  her 
self  to  cook  them  just  as  Gypsy  liked  them, 
nor  what  the  kitchen  fire  had  done  to  the 
headache  left  by  the  hard  day's  packing;  but 
Gypsy  knows.  Ah,  yes,  Gypsy  knows. 

There  is  a  queer,  quick  droop  of  her  eyes, 
and  for  three  whole  minutes  she  has  not  a 
word  to  say.  That  little  promise  made  up 
stairs  in  the  dark  is  riveted  into  its  place  by  — 
who  would  have  thought  it?  —  a  griddle-cake. 
"  My  mother  is  all  wound  up  together,"  Gypsy 
writes  sometimes  to  her  cousin  Joy.  "  All 
the  big  things  and  all  the  little  things  are 
tangled  into  each  other,  and  I  don't  believe  she 
knows  the  difference." 

After  the  three  minutes  are  over,  Gypsy 
begins  to  talk  again,  and  Gypsy  always  has 
plenty  to  say,  and  the  silver  flashes,  and  the 
>f 


light  deepens  and  glows  through  the  soft  white 
shades,  and  her  mother's  face  smiles  in  it  be 
hind  the  tea-things ;  everybody  talks  a  great 
deal,  but  nobody  says  much  about  to-morrow. 
Gypsy  misses  Tom,  and  wishes  he  were  there 
to  say  good-bye  with  the  rest,  and  Winnie's 
kitty  curls  up  into  her  arms  and  tries  to  put 
her  cold  nose  down  her  neck,  and  there 
is  a  scarlet  maple  which  she  notices,  flut 
tering  softly  in  the  wind  against  the  window- 
glass. 

She  feels  these  things  and  remembers  them 
with  very  much  such  a  sensation  as  if  she 
were  going  to  heaven  to  find  something  sub 
limely  superior  to  them  all,  yet  with  a  wistful 
tenderness  clinging  to  the  tried  and  proved. 
Snapberry  griddle-cakes  may  be  as  melting 
and  brown  as  these,  to  be  sure.  Supper  at  the 
Golden  Crescent  will  doubtless  have  something 
to  take  the  place  of  her  father's  stories  and 
Winnie's  escapades  with  his  mug  of  milk,  if 
one  only  knew  what.  Mrs.  McMunn's  eyes 
may  be  as  well  worth  looking  at  as  her 


mother's,  but  she  should  like  to  have  '*  the 
evidence  on  't." 

When  she  has  thought  as  far  as  this,  over 
goes  Winnie's  milk,  splash !  all  down  his  neck 
and  up  his  jacket  sleeve,  and  out  goes  the  big 
book  which  helped  him  to  fill  out  his  chair, 
and  up  jumps  Winnie,  strangling,  gasping,  red 
in  the  face. 

"  Oh  —  I  never  —  hum  !  look  here  !  I  can't 
swallow  either  way  !  I  Ve  got  a  crumb  in  my 
breath-pipe !  " 

Gypsy  laughs  at  this,  —  laughs  more  than 
usual,  —  and  supper  ends  merrily. 

"  The  middle  of  March,"  her  father  says,  as 
they  stand  there  all  together  in  the  lamplight; 
"  what  a  long  time  to  wait !  " 

But  Gypsy  does  not  think  it  long.  Besides, 
Mrs.  McMunn  may  give  them  a  day  or  two  at 
the  holidays  when  Tom  is  at  home. 

She  listens  to  her  father's  evening  prayer, 
but  wonders  a  little  between  the  sentences  who 
her  room-mate  will  be.  She  goes  up  herself  to 
put  Winnie  to  bed,  because  it  is  her  last  night, 


and  she  has  promised  him  a  story.  She  had 
expected  to  begin  to  feel  sober  and  wonder 
what  girls  did  at  school  without  any  little 
brother  to  tease;  but  Winnie  is  very  sleepy, 


and  when  he  tries  to  say  his  prayers,  goes  all 
the  way  through  "  Baa,  baa,  black  sheep,"  and 
does  n't  know  the  difference. 
Bedtime  comes  early  for  her,  too,  for  waking 


time  must  be  early  to-morrow;  so  she  kisses 
her  mother  good-night  with  an  extra  squeeze, 
and  steals  away  to  bed  to  dream  till  morning 
of  this  beautiful  new  future  which  is  coming. 

Of  what  it  will  be  like,  she  has  a  few  ideas. 
There  will  be  no  dishes  to  wash,  no  errands  ta 
do.  Somebody  will  dust  her  room  for  her. 
The  dinners  will  be  very  much  like  the  dinners 
at  a  large  hotel,  probably,  and  there  will  always 
be  hot  biscuit  for  supper.  She  will  wear  long 
dresses,  and  go  to  the  bank  and  draw  her  own 
checks. 

There  will  always  be  a  girl  at  hand  to  talk 
all  night  with,  if  she  wants  to.  There  will  be 
a  great  many  "scrapes"  to  keep  out  of  or  — 
fall  into.  There  will  be  a  few  books,  and  a 
composition  class,  and  she  expects  to  study  — - 
some. 


N  the  first  place  it  rained. 

Gypsy  woke  at  half-past  five 
to    find   her    room    filled   with 
gray   gloom,    and    to    hear   an 
ominous,    pattering    sound    upon    the    leaden 
piazza  roof. 

Her  mother,  coming  in  to  call  her,  found  her 
shivering  in  her  night-dress  at  the  window,  her 
face  pressed  up  against  the  glass,  down  which 
sluggish  streams  of  rain  were  rolling  and  col 
lecting  in  little  puddles  on  the  sill.  Outside, 
huge  clouds  of  mist  were  drifting  about  and 


settling  to  the  ground,  and  the  leaves  of  the 
maples  hung  dull  and  drenched. 

"  Ugh !  "  said  Gypsy,  shrugging  her  shoul 
ders.  That  really  seemed  to  be  the  only  thing 
there  was  to  say.  She  liked  a  journey  in  an 
easterly  storm  no  better  than  most  people,  and 
had  certainly  made  up  her  mind  to  have  the 
sun  shine.  Moreover,  she  had  cherished  secret 
expectations  of  looping  her  dress  over  a  cer 
tain  pretty  white  skirt  that  hung  in  the  closet; 
white  always  is  and  always  must  be  so  much 
more  ladylike-looking  than  anything  else. 
Now  there  was  nothing  to  look  forward  to 
but  a  balmoral. 

It  was  not  over-pleasant  to  hear  the  driving 
of  the  rain  as  she  locked  the  last  trunk, 
fastened  the  last  pin,  and  turned,  cape  and  hat 
and  little  bag  over  her  arm,  to  take  the  last 
look  around  her  deserted  room  before  she  shut 
the  door.  She  wished  that  the  wind  would  not 
blow  so  while  she  sat  eating  her  breakfast ;  and 
her  mother,  softly  busy  about  her  luncheon, 
stopped  to  stroke  her  cheek  a  little. 


She  felt  very  sure  that  the  driver  had  come 
too  early  when  his  long  sharp  ring  pealed 
through  the  house,  and  he  ran  clattering  up 
stairs  and  clattering  downstairs  with  the  trunks, 


and  Patty  came  from  the  kitchen  wiping  her 
hands  on  her  apron  to  say  good-bye ;  and  when 
the  last  words  came  upon  the  steps,  and  sleepy 
Winnie,  who  had  to  pry  both  fists  into  his  eyes 


to  keep  them  open,  insisted  that  he  was  "  cry« 
ing  because  Gypsy 's  gone  off  to  a  Boarded 
School ;  "  when  her  mother,  with  wet  eyelashes 
and  face  a  little  pale,  caught  her  up  into  her 
arms  once,  twice,  and  once  again,  and  her 
father,  looking  straight  ahead,  went  down  the 
path  holding  the  umbrella  carefully  over  her. 
She  stopped  a  moment  on  the  carriage  steps, 
half  in  and  half  out,  the  rain  whisking  against 
the  pretty  gray  travelling-dress,  where  her 
waterproof  blew  aside,  her  face  turned  back 
towards  the  house,  —  a  rather  forlorn-looking 
little  Gypsy.  The  first  they  knew,  she  had 
jumped  right  out  into  the  rain,  and  was  up 
the  path  and  the  steps,  her  arms  about  her 
mother's  neck. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  mother !  I  love  you 
hard!" 

And  the  year  at  the  Golden  Crescent  began 
to  look  a  little  misty. 

It  was  a  day's  journey  to  the  little  Massachu 
setts  town  of  Snapberry.  You  did  not  know 
that  there  was  such  a  town?  Very  well;  find 


ft  on  the  map  —  if  you  can.  It  is  there, 
whether  you  find  it  or  not ;  only  it  happens  to 
be  a  little  differently  spelled. 

Nothing  of  any  importance  happened  on  the 
way,  except  that  Gypsy  could  not  get  her  bag 
gage  checked,  and  lost  her  luncheon  out  of  the 
car-window,  and  once  walked  straight  into  the 
smoking-car.  Though  a  very  courageous,  she 
was  not  a  very  old  traveller. 

It  poured  all  day.  Gypsy  patronised  the 
"  popcorn  boy "  till  she  could  eat  no  more, 
bought  a  Harper's  Weekly  and  looked  at  the 
pictures,  read  a  remarkable  story  by  Cousin 
Somebody  of  a  young  lady  who  climbed  into  a 
burning  house  to  save  her  lover,  watched  the 
people  in  the  car  till  she  knew  them  by  heart 
and  had  made  up  a  story  for  every  one  of 
them,  counted  the  telegraph  poles  till  she  was 
dizzy,  and  at  last,  as  the  twilight  began  to  fail, 
leaned  her  forehead  against  the  side  of  the 
window  and  idly  watched  the  storm,  the  driv 
ing  rain,  the  gusts  of  wind  tossing  the  leaves 
about,  the  muddy  pools  collected  by  the 


tracks,  the  clenched  figures  loitering  at  the 
stations,  the  soaked  meadows,  soaked  feru.es, 
soaked  grass  trying  to  grow  in  the  shade  of 
brick  walls  and  bridges,  dripping  umbrellas, 
dripping  roofs,  dripping  trees,  —  her  face  catch 
ing  a  bit  of  dreariness  from  it  as  she  looked. 
There  was  a  bright  fire  in  the  parlor  now  at 
home ;  Winnie  was  picking  up  his  blocks  to  be 
ready  for  father's  coming  home  early  from  the 
store ;  mother  had  gone  out  to  the  kitchen  to 
see  Patty  about  supper;  she  would  take  her 
knitting  when  she  came  back,  and  the  little 
hair-cloth  rocking-chair;  down  at  her  feet  there 
would  be  a  cricket  with  nobody  on  it. 

The  year  at  the  Golden  Crescent  looked 
decidedly  gray. 

The  train  was  due  at  Snapberry  at  six  o'clock. 
A  young  lady  came  in  about  half-past  five 
from  one  of  the  junctions  where  she  had  been 
waiting,  and  took  a  seat  a  little  in  front  of 
Gypsy.  She  had  on  a  very  pretty  bonnet,  and 
Gypsy,  glad  to  have  something  else  than  that 
cricket  at  home  to  think  of,  sat  up  straight  and 


looked  at  it.  It  was  a  brown  travelling  straw 
with  a  brown  feather,  neither  very  simple  nor 
very  showy,  but  with  that  indescribable  some 
thing  about  it  which  girls  call  "  so  stylish,"  and 
which  means  more  than  conformity  of  shape 
and  trimming  to  the  prevailing  mode.  There 
was  a  spray  of  pink  heather  inside,  which  fell 
against  a  mass  of  black  hair,  —  black  as  onyx, 
Gypsy  could  see  from  the  side  glimpses  which 
she  had  when  the  light  struck  it. 

The  young  lady's  dress,  a  brown  mozam- 
bique,  softly  shaded  off  around  the  skirt  by  a 
heavy  fold  of  browner  silk,  though  covered  by 
her  cloak,  and  decorously  looped  over  her 
dainty  white  skirt,  was  yet  sufficiently  visible 
for  one  to  remark  upon  its  elegance. 

Her  very  waterproof,  finished  at  the  throat 
by  a  high  tucked  linen  collar,  and  thrown 
gracefully  back  from  her  free  arms,  had  more 
of  an  "air"  about  it  than  would  velvet  upon 
nine-tenths  of  the  people  who  wear  it. 

It  was  also  observable,  as  she  slightly  turned 

her  head,  and  the  curve  of  her  cheek  was  out* 

* 


lined  in  rich  dark  carmine,  that  the  pink  feathet 
was  chosen  with  a  studied  aptitude  of  tints. 

It  is  an  "  old  saw,"  almost  worn  out  in  these 
days  of  high  wages  and  bead  trimmings,  that  a 
lady  can  always  be  recognised  by  her  dress. 
Perhaps  the  trimmed  skirt  was  a  little  rich  for 
such  a  dingy,  muddy,  dripping  day,  but  there 
was  something  about  the  tout  ensemble  of  this 
young  lady  with  which  Gypsy  was  pleased. 
There  was,  however,  one  exception.  She 
wore  a  pair  of  light,  very  light,  kid  gloves. 
Whether  this  was  a  notch  in  the  saw,  could 
not  be  decided  at  once. 

When  she  had  been  a  little  while  in  the  car, 
she  turned  around  to  speak  to  the  conductor, 
and  Gypsy  could  see  her  face  fully.  Her  first 
impression  was  that  it  was  a  very  handsome 
face,  and  as  Gypsy  liked  to  watch  handsome 
faces  much  as  she  liked  to  watch  pictures,  she 
looked  at  it  every  chance  she  had,  till  the 
whistle  sounded  for  Snapberry.  Her  second 
impression  was  that  it  was  a  handsome  face 
without  the  "very;  "  her  third,  that  handsome 


was  not  the  word.  A  striking  face  it  certainly 
was.  There  was  an  abundance  of  that  oynx- 
like  hair ;  good  eyes,  —  full,  black,  expressive ; 
the  mouth,  however,  was  peculiar,  —  it  was 
well  shaped,  with  warm,  rich  colour  in  the  lips, 
but  something,  one  could  scarcely  tell  what, 
was  the  matter  with  it. 

As  the  train  shrieked  into  Snapberry,  and 
Gypsy  was  putting  on  her  gloves,  she  observed 
the  young  lady  take  down  her  little  bag  from 
the  rack  above  her  head.  When  Snapberry 
passengers  left  the  cars,  she  left  with  them. 

Gypsy  stepped  out  into  the  pouring  rain 
upon  the  uncovered  platform  of  the  little 
wooden  depot,  with  a  great  sinking  sense  of 
loneliness.  Wet  umbrellas  spattered  into  her 
face,  and  wet  overcoats  brushed  against  her; 
wet  baggage-men  were  slamming  wet  trunks 
about,  and  a  very  wet  little  girl  who  stood  upon 
the  platform  was  crying  because  nobody  had 
come  to  meet  her.  Gypsy,  seeking  for  the 
Ladies'  Room,  ran  against  a  little  coachman 
with  a  moustache,  who  agreed  to  carry  her  to 


the  Golden  Crescent,  and  appeared  to  be  the 
only  arrangement  for  such  case  made  and 
provided. 

The  Ladies'  Room  consisted  of  a  floor,  and  a 
bench  running  around  a  wall.  It  contained  a 
very  smoky  kerosene  lamp,  and  one  old  lady  in 
a  poke-bonnet.  Gypsy  sat  down  on  the  bench 
and  winked  very  hard,  first  at  the  lamp,  and 
then  at  the  old  lady.  While  she  was  waiting 
there  for  the  coachman  to  find  her  trunks,  the 
wet  little  girl  was  brought  in  by  a  dripping 
father,  held  warmly  in  his  arms,  with  his  kisses 
dropping  on  her  forehead. 

"Did  Dolly  think  papa 'd  forgotten  her?" 
Gypsy  heard  him  say;  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  great  sinking  would  take  away  her  breath. 

Presently  the  little  coachman  came  in,  jing 
ling  a  check. 

"  Can't  find  but  one  of  yer  trunks,  mum ; 
the  big  un  's  here,  but  there 's  no  signs  of 
t'  other." 

"  My  little  trunk  !  —  not  here !  " 

"  No,  mum,  it  hain't.     Dy'er  thinks  it  "s  got 


took  to  the  Junction,  an'  will  be  'long  down  the 
fust  train  in  the  morning;  you  jest  take  your 
check  and  stick  to't,  and  you'll  git  it,  no  dan 
ger.  This  way,  mum,  this  way." 

Gypsy  followed  him  out  into  the  rain,  with  a 
very  sober  face. 

It  is  not  exactly  a  cheering  thing  to  lose 
one's  baggage  in  bright  sunlight.  Now,  in  the 
dark  and  loneliness  and  strangeness,  it  seemed 
to  be  the  straw  that  broke  the  camel's  back. 
What  would  her  mother  say?  And  what 
should  she  do  for  the  very  dress  which  she  had 
meant  to  wear  to-morrow  morning?  And 
what  if  the  trunk  did  not  come  back  by  the 
"fust  train"  or  any  train?  —  and  that  Honi- 
ton  collar !  and  the  corn-coloured  necktie ! 
and  that  bridle  with  bead  fringe ! 

Gypsy  found  several  girls  in  the  coach  be 
fore  her.  One  was  the  young  lady  with  the 
heather  in  her  bonnet  and  the  Mozambique 
dress.  Just  before  the  door  was  shut,  the 
driver  handed  in  a  pretty  girl  with  light  hair 
and  very  small  hands;  she  muttered  some- 


thing  about  it's  being  scandalously  crowded, 
and  swept  into  the  only  vacant  seat,  beside  this 
young  lady.  She  wore  no  waterproof,  and 
her  showy  travelling-suit  was  drenched  and 
spattered  with  mud ;  the  other,  either  by  acci 
dent  or  design,  moved  away  a  little  into  the 
corner,  and  gathered  her  cloak  closely  about 
her.  The  new-comer  saw  the  act  and  turned 
sharply,  some  words  upon  her  lips,  which  she 
apparently  found  difficulty  in  restraining.  The 
two  girls  eyed  each  other  for  a  moment  with 
that  sort  of  dislike  which  comes  —  and  goes 
too,  sometimes  —  by  instinct,  but  neither  spoke. 

The  coach  was  dimly  and  drearily  lighted, 
the  rain  pattering  in  a  dismal  style  upon  the 
drawn  windows,  and  Gypsy  noted  these  things 
by  way  of  something  to  think  about. 

There  were  two  girls  —  old  scholars,  evi 
dently —  upon  the  back  seat,  chatting  merrily 
with  each  other.  It  never  occurred  to  them 
that  the  new-comers  might  feel  strange  and 
homesick,  and  glad  to  be  spoken  to;  so  they 
had  all  the  talking  to  themselves. 
m 


Presently,  however,  the  young  lady  in  the 
Mozambique  turned  around  with  a  smile  to 
Gypsy,  and  asked  if  she  were  going  to  the 
Golden  Crescent. 

"Yes,"  said  Gypsy;  "is  it  very  dreadful,  do 
you  think?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  young  lady;  "I 
am  a  new  scholar  too." 

"Oh!" 

"  Did  n't  I  see  you  in  the  cars,  I  wonder?" 

"  Did  you?  Well,  I  saw  you,  and  I'm  much 
obliged  for  your  bonnet." 

"  Obliged  for  my  bonnet?" 

"  Yes ;  you  see  I  came  just  about  as  near 
being  homesick !  and  when  your  bonnet  walked 
in,  it  was  so  pretty  I  had  to  sit  up  and  look 
at  it." 

The  young  lady  laughed,  and  looked  very 
much  amused ;  not  ill-pleased,  either,  it  seemed. 

The  rest  of  the  girls  had  by  this   time  all 
grown  quiet  to  listen  to  the  conversation,  and 
Gypsy,  hearing  a  little  laugh  go  round,  shrank 
back,  somewhat  appalled,  into  the  dark. 
33 


Fifteen  minutes'  ride  brought  them  to  a  high 
white  house  surrounded  by  large  grounds  and 
many  trees.  Gypsy  could  see  them  dimly 
through  the  rain,  as  she  jumped  from  the  coach 
door  at  a  bound,  regardless  of  the  helping  hand 
of  the  little  coachman.  Her  acquaintance  of 
the  cars  came  down  more  sedately,  but  seemed 
quite  able  to  take  care  of  herself.  The  pretty 
girl  made  a  great  commotion ;  she  handed  her 
umbrella  to  one,  and  thrust  her  bag  into  the  lap 
of  another,  and  caught  her  crinoline  upon  the 
steps,  and  must  needs  scream  about  it,  gave  the 
driver  both  her  very  little  hands,  and  finally 
allowed  him  to  lift  her  to  the  ground.  Little 
things  make  great  impressions,  and  Gypsy 
noticed. 

A  lady  whom  she  concluded  must  be  Mrs. 
McMunn  met  the  girls  in  the  hall,  shook  hands 
with  each  in  turn,  asked  their  names,  and  sent 
a  servant  to  show  them  their  rooms.  Gypsy 
was  taken  to  the  third  story,  and  shown  into  a 
room  by  herself. 

It  was   a   low,  small  room,  with  one    good 

»  33 


sized  window,  an  indescribable  carpet,  plain 
furniture,  brown  papering,  no  pictures,  and  a 
bare  mantelpiece. 

Somebody  brought  up  her  trunk;  she  un 
locked  it  as  she  would  unlock  a  trunk  in  a 
dream,  and  dressed  herself  for  supper  with  her 
eyes  shut,  so  as  not  to  see  that  lonely,  bare 
mantelpiece  and  the  staring  walls;  they  had 
the  singular  effect  of  making  her  feel  as  if  she 
were  going  to  choke. 

Presently  a  strange  girl  knocked  at  the  door, 
said  that  supper  was  ready,  and  went  away  again. 

Gypsy  found  her  way  down  through  the 
crooked  entries  to  the  first  floor,  where  she 
encountered  her  friend  of  the  coach. 

"  Oh,  is  that  you  ?  Good  !  We  '11  go  in  to 
gether,"  said  the  young  lady,  drawing  Gypsy's 
arm  through  hers.  Gypsy  was  pleased.  She 
had  dreaded  to  walk  the  length  of  the  long 
dining-hall  alone,  and  she  was  glad  to  have 
somebody  to  speak  to.  She  did  not  say  so,  but 
there  was  a  little  grateful  snap  to  her  eyes, 
which  the  young  lady  saw,  and  she  slipped  her 


arm  about  her  waist,  with  a  half-confidential, 
half-patronising  air,  laughing. 

"  It  is  an  undertaking  to  walk  down  a  dining- 
hall,  but  we  won't  look  green  if  we  are  new 
scholars,  will  we,  Miss  —  " 

"  There  is  n't  any  Miss  about  it  I  'm  just 
Gypsy  Breynton." 

"  Gypsy  Breynton  !  Gypsy  Breynton !  What 
an  odd  name !  Did  your  mother  find  it  in  a 
book?  Well,  I'm  Maude  Clare." 

Gypsy  thought  that  Maude  Clare  was  a  very 
pretty  name,  and  said  so ;  which  Maude  Clare 
appeared  to  like. 

"  I  don't  see  what  they  call  this  the  Golden 
Crescent  for,"  said  Gypsy,  as  they  passed  the 
length  of  the  table,  arm-in-arm,  to  the  seats 
which  Mrs.  McMunn  pointed  out  to  them. 

"  I  believe  there  are  some  yellow  maples  or 
something  on  the  hill  behind  the  house,"  said 
Maude  Clare;  and  then  in  a  whisper  as  they 
sat  down,  "Plated  forks  !  did  you  ever?" 

"  Never,"  said  Gypsy,  without  a  very  deaf 
idea  what  she  was  talking  about ;  and  the  nexfc 

35 


she  knew,  Mrs.  McMunn  was  asking  the 
blessing. 

The  supper  was  good,  but  the  table  was  long 
and  somewhat  dimly  lighted,  and  the  girls 
looked  homesick  and  cold.  Maude  Clare 
talked  a  good  deal. 

When  Gypsy  went  up  to  her  room  after  tea, 
she  was  surprised  and  disappointed  to  find  a 
quiet,  rather  plain  girl  in  black  there,  unpack 
ing  a  bag.  She  and  Maude  Clare  had  been 
hoping  that  they  should  room  together* 

She  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  stood 
looking  out,  with  her  forehead  on  the  glass. 
It  was  raining  still,  and  the  wind  was  blowing 
bitterly.  A  little  hill  rolled  up  just  behind  the 
house  from  the  garden ;  on  its  top,  through  the 
darkness,  she  could  faintly  see  the  outline,  high 
against  the  sky,  of  a  curve  of  tossing  trees. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  where  the  Golden 
comes  in,  anyway,"  she  said  drearily. 

"  The  old  girls  say  it  "s  beautiful  in  the 
sun,"  said  the  quiet  room-mate,  creeping  into 
bed. 


Gypsy  pulled  down  the  curtain,  and  began 
to  undress  with  a  jerk. 

Long  after  she  was  in  bed,  with  her  eyes 
shut,  she  seemed  to  see  the  black  mantelpiece 
and  the  staring,  pktureless  walls,  and  the  trees 


tossing  out  in  the  rain.  Long  after  she  was  in 
bed,  she  saw  the  fire  in  the  parlour  grate  at 
home,  the  little  hair-cloth  rocking-chair,  and 
the  empty  cricket.  The  room-mate,  who  was 
not  Maude  Clare,  was  crying  softly  —  though 
that  she  did  not  knew  —  on  the  pillow  beside 
her. 

The  -year  at  the  Golden  Crescent  began  to 
look  very  black. 


Y  BLESSED  LITTLE 
MOTHER,  —  You  never 
did !  No,  I  know  you 
never  did,  for  all  the 

people  you  went  to  boarding-school  with  wear 
little  pugs  to  their  hair  behind,  and  have  a 
baby  with  whooping-cough  ;  besides,  there 
ms  n't  any  Maude  Clare. 

I  think  it's  perfectly  mag.  at  the  Golden 
Crescent,  and  I  '11  tell  you  why.  It  poured 
pitchforks  all  day  Tuesday,  —  that  isn't  why, 
but  I  'm  coming  to  it  sometime,  if  I  live  long 
enough,  and  don't  forget  it, —  and  you  'd  better 
believe  that  I  had  on  blue  —  very  delicate  sky 


blue  —  spectacles  before  night.  Besides,  I  lost 
my  luncheon,  and  was  hungry  enough  to  eat 
stewed  marbles.  Then  I  had  to  go  and  lose  my 
trunk  on  top  of  it,  and  when  that  man  came 
in  jingling  the  check,  did  n't  I  want  to  see 
you? 

The  trunk  came  back  from  the  Junction  Wed 
nesday  morning  turned  topsy-turvy,  with  the 
cork  out  of  the  cologne  bottle.  I  mean  the 
trunk  was  topsy-turvy,  not  Wednesday  morn 
ing.  Mrs.  McMunn  says  I  'm  careless  with  my 
commas.  I  meant  to  have  written  before,  just 
as  much  as  could  be,  —  that  little  scrap  I  sent 
off  Wednesday,  just  to  let  you  know  I  was 
alive,  was  n't  anything,  —  but  there  has  n't  been 
a  minute.  I  have  to  study,  and  then  Maude 
Clare  comes  in.  But  here  I  Ve  written  three 
pages,  and  have  n't  told  you  a  thing  you  want 
to  know,  and  father  will  have  such  a  quantity  of 
questions  about  Mrs.  McMunn  and  all.  Let 
me  see:  — 

Sfiapberry  is  a  town  situated  somewhere  in 
Massachusetts,  upon  the  Snapberry  River.  It 


has  five  thousand  inhabitants,  six  stores,  three 
churches,  a  bridge,  a  de"pot,  and  a  large  number 
of  minute  boys  with  their  mouths  open.  It  is 
celebrated  for  its  little  coachmen,  brown  sugar, 
and  pretty  girls. 

The  Golden  Crescent  is  a  select  family  school 
for  young  ladies;  but  twenty  admitted,  and 
usually  nineteen  on  hand ;  young  ladies  expected 
to  supply  their  own  napkin-rings,  pillow-cases, 
and —  Oh,  I  forgot,  there  is  a  beau-i\i\)\  row 
of  yellow  maples  over  on  a  hill  behind  the 
house,  shaped  just  like  a  quarter  of  a  moon, 
and  when  I  woke  up  Wednesday  morning,  they 
were  all  blowing  about  in  the  sun,  as  if  they 
were  on  fire. 

Mrs.  McMunn  is  a  widow,  or  else  she  is  n't, 
and  I  don't  know  which.  The  girls  say  she  was 
divorced  from  her  husband,  and  that  he  is  liv 
ing  somewhere ;  but  they  say  she  never  speaks 
of  him  any  more  than  if  she  had  never  had  any. 
Mrs.  McMunn  is  the  funniest !  I  really  can't 
think  of  anything  she  looks  like,  but  a  barrel 
walking  about  with  a  very  large  Baldwin  apple 


for  a  head.  She  is  so  stout  —  the  same  size  all 
the  way  up  to  her  neck,  —  and  her  cheeks  are 
so  red,  and  then  she  is  freckled.  Besides,  her 
kid  gloves  don't  fit,  and  her  waterfall  sticks  out 
like  a  little  feather,  ever  so  far  from  her  neck, 
and  when  she  shakes  her  head  at  the  girls,  it 
nods  about;  they  cut  up,  just  so  as  to  see  it  go. 
Besides,  I  can  make  her  laugh,  and  then  she 
sobers  down  and  says,  "  Too  much  levity,  Miss 
Breynton,  too  much  levity,"  and  then  I  nearly 
go  off;  when  I  laugh,  the  other  girls  all  have  to 
go  and  laugh  too ;  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  what 's 
the  reason. 

Then  there  is  Mademoiselle.  It  is  so  funny 
to  hear  her  talk  English.  I  don't  see  much  of 
her,  except  in  French  Reader,  and  she  is  very 
quiet  and  stays  in  her  own  room.  I  don't  know 
whether  she  's  lonely,  or  what.  One  girl  in  the 
class  insists  on  calling  le  chat,  lee  shat,  and  puts 
poor  Mademoiselle  in  an  agony.  Every  time 
the  cat  is  round,  she  will  say,  "  Comment  s'ap- 
pelle-t-il  ce  bite  Id,  Miss  Holly? "  and  poor 
Miss  Holly  stammers  and  blushes,  and  is  sure 


she  has  it  right  now,  till  she  and  the  shat  are 
sent  off  in  disgrace. 

There  are  two  other  teachers,  Miss  Ayre 
and  Chaplain  Goss.  Chaplain  Goss  attends 
prayers  and  Mathematics ;  he  wears  green 
spectacles,  and  has  a  cough ;  the  girls  plague 
him  half  out  of  his  life,  and  when  he  wants  to 
make  them  mind,  he  snaps  his  fingers  at  them : 
I  do  believe  he  knows  that  Algebra  by  heart, 
though,  anyway.  You  ought  to  have  seen  him 
look  at  me  this  morning,  when  I  said  x  was 
equal  to  3|,  and  it  ought  to  have  been  some 
thing  else,  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what.  My ! 
you  would  have  thought  I  was  a  chicken  just 
out  of  the  shell,  running  round  with  horrid  little 
half-grown  feathers  on. 

Miss  Ayre  teaches  Latin,  Botany,  and  all  those 

f      .1    •  01  ,11  -        RIGHT   UP   SO. 

sorts  of  things.      She   talks  ~~ 

on    a  funny    little    squeak  ; 

she  's  as  thin  as  a  pin  and  as  cross  as  a  bear. 

She  always  acts  as  if  she  were  trying  to  make 

up  for    Mrs.    McMunn,   and    she   scolds   when 

Mrs.  McMunn  laughs  at  the  girls. 

43 


Mrs.  McMunn  teaches  History,  and  the  big 
girls  who  are  finishing  up  on  Mental  Philoso 
phy  and  Butler.  What  is  Butler,  —  some  sort 
of  a  geography?  She's  very  pleasant,  if  she 
only  would  take  down  that  waterfall. 

Oh,  I  forgot  Mr.  Schleiermacher,  the  music- 
teacher.  He  has  a  moustache  and  a  diamond 
ring,  and  the  girls  put  on  their  best  dresses 
days  when  they  take  a  music-lesson.  I  asked 
Maude  Clare  one  day  what  she  did  it  for,  and 
she  said  her  other  was  torn. 

And  now  I've  come  to  Maude  Clare — my 
beautiful,  darling,  precious  Maude  Clare.  Is  n't 
it  a  lovely  name?  and  doesn't  it  sound  just 
exactly  like  a  novel?  She  says  her  mother 
found  it  in  a  book  somewhere,  and  that  it  was 
the  name  of  an  heiress  who  was  carried  off  by 
the  Indians,  and  she  had  ever  so  many  lovers, 
and  they  all  came  after  her  and  brought  her 
back ;  I  believe  she  married  one  of  them  with 
a  rich  uncle,  and  they  went  to  Europe  for  their 
wedding  tour.  I  think  it  must  be  a  splendid  story. 
Maude  Clare  says  she  had  such  passionate  eyes. 


Maude  Clare  is  splendid.  She  is  as  hand« 
some  as  she  can  be,  and  so  stylish  —  why,  you 
haven't  any  idea!  She  has  more  things  just 
for  this  fall  than  I  have  in  two  years. 

Jacqueline  Delancey  does  n't  think  Maude  is 
pretty,  but  that  is  just  because  she  is  pretty 
herself.  I  don't  like  Jacqueline  Delancey.  I 
saw  her  in  the  coach  and  I  knew  I  should  n't. 
She  is  afraid  of  things,  and  screams.  Then  she 
has  little  bits  of  hands  and  is  always  showing 
them  off.  Then  she  runs  down  Maude  Clare. 

I  like  to  watch  Maude  Clare  dress.  She 
moves  her  hands  about  in  such  a  pretty  way. 
She  looks  at  my  things  sometimes  out  of  the 
corners  of  her  eyes,  but  she  never  laughs  at 
them,  the  way  Jack  Delancey  does,  and  that 's 
one  reason  why  I  like  her.  I  don't  mind  being 
laughed  at  a  bit,  but  then  I  'd  rather  not. 

Maude  Clare  and  I  are  going  to  be  friends 
all  our  lives  long,  and  she  thinks  ever  so  much 
of  me,  and  I  think  ever  so  much  of  her.  I  like 
to  braid  her  hair  for  her.  She  has  seen  ever  so 
many  gentlemen,  and  they  all  thought  a  great 


deal  of  her,  and  she  tells  me  about  them 
and  she  does  n't  tell  another  soul. 

She  and  I  are  never  going  to  marry,  because 
we  never  could  love  our  husbands  as  much  as 
we  do  each  other.  Besides,  I  'd  a  great  deal 
rather  have  her  than  a  husband,  and  besides,  I 
would  n't  be  married  anyway.  I  think  it 's 
horrid.  Maude  Clare  and  I  always  go  to  walk 
together,  and  I  sit  by  her  at  table. 

I'd  give  the  world  if  we  were  room-mates, 
but  Mrs.  McMunn  won't  let  us  change  now. 
Maude  Clare  rooms  with  poor  Miss  Holly  on 
the  second  floor,  and  I'm  up  here  with  Jane 
Bruce.  Jane  Bruce  is  very  good,  I  guess,  but 
she  's  homely  and  she  does  n't  talk.  She  's  in 
mourning,  but  I  never  asked  her  for  whom.  I 
don't  see  much  of  her  anyway,  for  we  go  right 
to  sleep  at  night,  and  I  'm  always  in  Maude 
Clare's  room  out  of  study-hours.  Maude  likes 
to  have  me  go  down  there  because  she  says 
the  stairs  are  crooked,  and  she  does  n't  like  to 
climb  up. 

Jo  Courtis   is   another  girl  I   know  a  littlft 

46 


Her  name  is  Josephine,  but  the  girls  call  her 
Jo.  She  came  from  the  West  somewhere,  and 
she  talks  very  loud,  and  says  funny  things. 
When  they  don't  call  her  Jo  they  call  her 
Courtis,  and  she  does  seem  like  a  boy.  But 
then  I  sort  of  like  her. 

There's  a  lame  girl  named  Phcebe  Hand, 
who  rooms  on  the  first  floor.  She  's  pale,  and 
always  looks  frightened.  I  haven't  seen  much 
of  her.  There  are  a  good  many  others,  but 
most  of  them  are  in  Jack  Delancey's  set,  and  I 
don't  go  with  them. 

Mrs.  Holt  is  the  housekeeper,  and  she 's  cross. 
Nancy  and  Dolly  are  the  Irish  girls,  and  Nancy 
gave  me  some  cold  rice-pudding  last  night. 

I  study  Algebra  and  French  and  Latin; 
next  term  I  'm  going  to  take  Roman  History. 
I  only  take  one  music-lesson  a  week,  as  you 
said,  so  I  only  have  to  give  an  hour  a  day  to 
practising.  I  told  Mr.  Schleiermacher  that  you 
wanted  me  to  give  most  of  my  time  to  my 
lessons,  because  that  was  what  I  came  to  school 
for. 

4V 


I  don't  think  I  have  to  study  very  hard. 

I  was  so  homesick  I  thought  I  should  go 
crazy  Tuesday  night,  but  Wednesday  the  sun 
shone,  and  Maude  Clare  made  me  laugh.  I 
am  having  a  splendid  time,  and  think  boarding- 
school  's  the  nicest  thing  in  the  world. 

Please  pull  father's  whiskers  for  me,  and  give 
Winnie  a  squeeze.  I  wrote  to  Tom  yesterday. 

I  have  n't  forgotten  what  I  promised  you  up 
in  my  room  in  the  dark.  I  Ve  gone  to  work 
and  had  a  regular  talk  with  you  every  night 
since  I  've  been  here.  Last  night  I  'd  been  eat 
ing  peanuts  all  study-hours,  and  did  n't  want  to 
a  bit;  but  I  did.  I  don't  mean  to  eat  any 
peanuts  to-night. 

Your  letter  was  magnificent.  I  'm  sorry 
Sarah  Rowe  has  the  measles.  Do  write  very 
soon  again  to 

Your  horrid  little  GYPSY. 

P.  S.  Maude  Clare  says  Jacqueline  Delan- 
cey  is  no  lady,  because  she  tries  to  show  off  her 

diamond  ring ;  it  was  only  her  father  who  gave 

48 


it  to  her,  but  she  wears  it  on  her  first  finger, 
and  tries  to  make  people  think  she  is  engaged. 
Maude  Clare  is  very  particular,  and  would  n't 
do  an  unladylike  thing  for  a  good  deal.  She 
means  to  make  her  father  give  her  a  diamond 
next  Christmas. 

P.  S.  No.  2.  The  girls  won't  believe  I  wear 
my  own  hair,  so  I  have  to  take  it  down  and 
run  round  with  it  hanging,  to  let  them  see. 


YPSY  was  standing  one  morn 
ing  at  her  window,  watch 
ing  that  crescent  of  yellow 
maples,  when  Jacqueline  Delancey  called  her. 
Those  maples,  by  the  way,  were  well  worth 
watching.  The  light  fell  under  them  from  the 
east,  where  the  sun  climbed  the  little  hill,  cut 
ting  the  outline  of  each  separate  leaf  in  flame. 
The  wind  and  the  frost  had  begun  to  twist  off 
their  rich,  ripe  stems,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
them ;  down  on  the  grass,  where  the  hoar-frost 
was  heavy,  they  blazed  like  jewels.  The  swell 
of  the  curve  was  marked  and  rounded  out  by 
three  blood-red  trees,  and  the  whole  stood  out 


sharply  against  a  deep  October  sky.  Gypsy 
always  brought  her  books  to  this  window,  and 
did,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  quite  as  much  look 


ing  as  studying.  She  spent  much  of  her  play 
time  at  this  window,  and  sometimes  forgot 
here  even  Maude  Clare.  It  held  a  spell  for 
her. 


But  Jacqueline  Delancey  was  calling. 

"  Gypsy !  Gypsy  Breynton !  Courtis,  where 
is  she?  Has  anybody  seen  her?  Miss  Breyn 
ton  !  Gypsy !  " 

"  Here  !  "  cried  Gypsy,  turning  away  with  an 
impatient  start  from  the  window;  the  maples 
and  Miss  Delancey  did  not  suit  exactly. 
"Here  I  am.  What's  up?" 

Jacqueline  Delancey  climbed  the  last  stair, 
flew  along  the  passage  and  through  Gypsy's 
opened  door,  with  her  breath  gone.  She 
tapped  her  throat  with  her  pretty  hands  —  it 
was  a  fine  opportunity  to  show  them  —  and  sat 
down  panting. 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry,"  said 
Gypsy,  eyeing  her  not  very  hospitably. 
"  Don't  sit  on  the  bed,  please.  I  don't  like 
my  bed  tumbled.  Take  a  chair  by  the  fire?" 

Miss  Delancey  concluded  that  it  was  time  to 
stop  panting,  took  the  chair,  and  observed  in  a 
very  impressive  manner  that  she  had  something 
to  tell  her. 

"Tell  away,"  said  Gypsy. 


"  What  do  you  suppose  Maude  Clare's  name 
is?" 

"Maude  Clare,  to  be  sure,"  said  mystified 
Gypsy. 

"  It 's  Maude  Clare  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  that 
is  n't  the  whole." 

"  Not  the  whole  !  " 

"  No,  I  guess  it  is  n't !  She  has  another 
name,  and  she  's  ashamed  of  it  —  I  'm  sure  I 
don't  blame  her,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  said 
Miss  Delancey,  making  a  gigantic  effort  to  look 
sarcastic,  with  about  the  success  that  a  wax 
doll  would  have  under  similar  circumstances. 
"But  to  think  of  her  being  ashamed  of  it,  and 
trying  to  hide  it  from  people,  —  and  that's  your 
paragon  of  a  Miss  Maude  Clare !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  "  said  Gypsy,  more 
warmly  than  politely. 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  believe  it  unless  you 
choose ;  it  does  n't  concern  me.  I  thought 
you  'd  like  to  know  it,  that 's  all,  and  I  heard 
Mademoiselle  call  her  by  it,  in  Racine  this 
morning  —  you  ought  to  have  seen  Maude 
n 


look !  —  so,  if  you  won't  take  my  word,  you 
may  take  hers." 

"What  is  the  name?" 

"  Go  and  ask  her  yourself,"  said  Miss  De- 
lancey,  triumphantly. 

Gypsy  hurried  away  to  Maude  Clare,  and 
indignantly  told  the  story  as  "  Jack  Delancey's 
latest." 

Maude  Clare  coloured. 

"  Why  —  you  —  don't  —  "  began  Gypsy. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  do ;  but  I  should  like  to 
know  what  business  it  is  of  Jacqueline  Delan 
cey's  if  I  choose  to  call  myself  Zerubbabel !  " 

"  Then  Maude  Clare  is  n't  your  real  name  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  You  don't  suppose  I  'd  say  so 
if  it  were  n't !  " 

"  But  you  have  another,  and  it  is  n't  pretty, 
and  so  you  leave  it  off,"  said  Gypsy,  in  a  maze. 
Maude  Clare  nodded  and  looked  cross.  Gypsy 
asked  what  it  was. 

"  Smith"  said  Maude  Clare,  faintly. 

Jacqueline  Delancey  had  made  a  point,  and, 
as  this  young  lady  very  seldom  did  make  a 

54 


point,  she  whittled  it  to  its  sharpest,  and  stuck 
it  into  Maude  Clare  then  and  thenceforward 
whenever  occasion  offered. 

No  one  word  was  oftener  on  her  lips,  with 
cough  and  laugh  and  sneer,  and  double  enten- 
dre,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  than  this  poor 
little  word  of  five  letters,  which  made  Maude 
Clare's  pretty  brows  blacken  like  a  thunder 
cloud,  and  Maude  Clare's  keen  tongue  (of 
which  Miss  Delancey  was  secretly  in  fear,  hav 
ing  felt  its  edge  more  than  once)  keep  silence. 
Partly  for  the  joke  of  the  thing,  partly  from 
unconscious  imitation,  the  rest  of  the  girls  fell 
into  the  way,  as  long  as  Maude  Clare  remained 
at  the  Golden  Crescent,  of  pronouncing  the 
unfortunate  name  as  Maude  Clare's  rival  did, 
and  of  writing  it  as  they  pronounced  it,  — - 
Maude  Clare  —  Smith,  with  a  pause  of  mock 
respect  at  the  dash  that  was  indescribable. 

Boarding-school  was  not  pure  Paradise,  after 

all.     Gypsy  found  this   out  in   due  time.     She 

enjoyed    the    fun    and    chatter    and    novelty, 

"  wearing  long   dresses  and  drawing  her  ow« 

M 


checks,"  having  no  errands  to  do,  and  Mrs. 
McMunn's  waterfall  to  laugh  at.  She  soon 
found  herself  —  for  some  unaccountable  reason 
which  she  spent  her  whole  year  at  the  Crescent 
trying  to  find  out  —  everybody's  pet  and 
favourite ;  and  her  lessons,  to  put  it  moderately, 
could  not  be  said  to  be  so  severe  a  strain  upon 
her  intellect  as  to  endanger  health  or  reason. 
As  for  home,  —  why,  she  missed  it,  to  be  sure,, 
but  the  holidays  were  coming  sometime.  Then 
she  never  felt  very  far  away  from  her  mother ; 
beginning,  as  she  did  in  the  morning,  to 
treasure  up  things  for  that  talk  with  her  at 
night ;  very  often  the  talk  was  put  into  a  letter, 
but,  written  or  spoken,  Gypsy  felt  it  a  reality. 

But  still  over  her  merry  days  there  fell  now 
and  then  a  little  shade. 

Maude  Clare  had  plenty  of  money.  So  ]*«cJ 
Jacqueline ;  so  had  the  rest.  It  was  an  ex' 
pensive  school,  and  attracted  the  notice  of 
wealthy  parents.  Gypsy  and  a  small  minority 
of  three  or  four  must  economise,  sometimes 
closely.  The  girls  were  for  the  most  part  too 


ladylike  to  taunt  her  with  this,  but  they 
reminded  her  of  it,  by  no  means  infrequently; 
sometimes  unnecessarily,  always  painfully. 

One  day  a  little  knot  of  them  gathered  in 
Josephine  Courtis'  room,  discussing  each  other's 
pretty  things.  Josephine's  winter  cloak  had 
just  come  from  home  by  express. 

"  It 's  early  for  it,  to  be  sure,"  she  said,  shak 
ing  out  the  heavy  folds,  "  but  I  can't  go  the 
buttons  on  my  sacque ;  they  look  as  if  they 
were  handed  down  from  Mrs.  Japhet." 

"  Why,  I  'm  sure  they  were  only  a  summer 
style,"  said  Gypsy. 

"Oh,  well;  it's  all  the  same  Dutch,"  an 
swered  Josephine  in  her  brusque  way,  holding 
up  the  cloak  for  inspection  and  admiration. 
Josephine's  "  loud  "  —  no  other  word  expresses 
it  —  Western  taste  was  always  questionable. 
Gypsy  did  not  like  the  striking  cuir-coloured 
cassock,  with  its  heavy,  dead-black  finish  of 
velvet;  and  while  the  rest  admired,  she  said 
nothing. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  have  for  a  bonnet^ 


Jo?"  asked  Jacqueline,  in  a  tone  which  plainly 
said  that  she  should  like  to  be  asked  what  she 
was  going  to  have.  As  Jo  did  not  ask,  how 
ever,  Miss  Delancey  had  to  volunteer  the 
information. 

"  Green  velvet  with  quilted  white  satin  let 
in.  Quilted  white  is  all  the  rage." 

"  Such  showy  things  are  not  my  taste,"  ob 
served  Maude  Clare,  who  made  it  a  point  never 
to  agree  with  Jacqueline  under  any  circum 
stances,  whatever  the  subject. 

"  Nor  mine,"  said  Gypsy. 

"  Of  course,  Gypsy  always  agrees  with  Miss 
—  Smith,"  remarked  Jacqueline,  by  way  of 
retribution. 

"  High  crowns,  you  know,"  said  a  New  York 
girl,  with  the  air  of  one  quite  willing  to  instruct 
Boston  and  all  other  little  villages. 

"  A?,  if  we  did  n't  know  that !  Of  course 
nobody  would  be  seen  without  a  high  crown." 

Gypsy  thought  of  those  "  little  pieces,"  with 
which  she  was  going  to  "  poke  it  up."  She 
felt  just  the,*  that  to  be  obliged  to  wear  a  low 


crown  would  be  an  affliction  greater  than  sh« 
could  bear.  I  hardly  think  it  was  cowardly; 
it  was  only  natural. 

After  a  little  chatter  about  balmorals  and 
skating-boots,  Alexander's  gloves,  thread  iace 
barbes,  the  price  of  ermine,  the  exact  length  of 
dinner-dresses,  and  the  relative  merits  of  water 
falls  and  coils,  somebody  said  something  about 
furs.  Jo  Courtis  had  a  faint  prospect  of  Hud 
son  Bay  Sables. 

Everybody  looked  at  Jo  respectfully. 

"  Mother  does  n't  like  to  see  sables  on 
school-girls,"  observed  Maude  Clare,  "  but  she 
means  to  keep  me  in  very  nice  mink  till  I 
graduate." 

As  Maude  Clare  was  generally  conceded, 
outside  of  Jacqueline  Delancey's  "  set,"  to  be 
the  most  distingue-looking  girl  in  school,  every 
body  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of  relief. 

"  I  would  n't  be  seen  in  anything  short  of 
mink,"  said  Maude  Clare,  impressively;  "every 
thing  cheaper  than  that  is  so  common." 

Gypsy's  face  flushed  a  little,  where  she  sat 
so 


over  in  the  corner  behind  her  friend,  —  flushed 
for  the  instant,  as  if  she  had  received  some 
sudden  degradation. 

For  her  furs  —  the  pretty  muff  and  collar, 
her  mother's  Christmas  present,  which  had 
matched  and  finished  off  her  gray  cassock  so 
tastefully  —  her  furs  were  only  squirrel. 

" I'm  going  to  have  Astrakhan,"  said  Jacque 
line  (she  had  intended  to  have  mink  until  this 
very  minute)  ;  "  that 's  the  latest,  and  they  say 
another  year  mink  will  be  all  out." 

"  That 's  fortunate,  for  I  'm  sure  I  should  n't 
want  yours  just  like  mine,"  observed  Maude 
Clare,  with  her  peculiar  smile. 

Gypsy,  over  in  her  corner,  was  thinking. 
If  squirrel  were  "so  common," — and  Maude 
Clare  herself  had  said  it,  —  what  should  she 
do?  At  least  she  could  go  without;  her 
mother  would  say  it  was  a  risk,  when  she  had 
been  used  to  them  so  many  winters;  but  her 
mother  would  not  know. 

Perhaps  this,   however  natural,  was  a   little 

cowardly.     Was  it  not?     However  that  might 
60 


be,  Jacqueline  hit  the  unspoken  thought  with 
an  unexpected  thrust,  — 

*'  I  don't  see  but  I  shall  have  to  go  without 
tny  till  holidays ;  I  would  n't  trust  anybody 
else  to  chose  Astrakhan  for  me,  and  Mrs.  M. 
won't  let  me  go  to  Boston ;  she  *s  been  as  cross 
as  a  bear  since  she  caught  me  in  the  cars 
with  Ben  Sizer.  I  'm  ashamed  to  go  without, 
though ;  it  looks  so  poverty-stricken." 

"Which  would  you  rather  do,  Maude,  —  go 
without  or  wear  squirrel?"  asked  Gypsy  in  an 
undertone,  fingering  Maude  Clare's  tassel  trim 
ming —  Maude  always  had  rich  trimmings  — 
in  an  uneasy,  absent  way.  But  Jacqueline 
heard  the  question. 

"  I  would  n't  be  seen  in  squirrel  a«^how,H 
said  she,  with  a  little  disdainful  gesture  of  her 
pretty  hands. 

Jane  Bruce  had  been  sitting  by  the  window, 
so  quietly  that  no  one  had  noticed  her.  Con 
sequently  every  one  started  a  little  in  surprise 
when  she  spoke  suddenly  and  decidedly, — 

0  Well,  I  would,  if  I  could  n't  afford  anything 


nicer  Of  course,  I  'd  rather  have  an  expensive 
and  stylish  thing;  so  would  anybody;  but  I 
should  feel  degraded,  I'm  sure  I  should,  if  I 
endangered  my  health  all  winter  long  rather 
than  carry  a  squirrel  muff  1 " 

The  girls  had  a  liking,  such  as  it  was,  for 
Jane  Bruce ;  she  had  a  way  of  doing  errands 
without  grumbling,  and  curing  their  neuralgia, 
and  being  sorry  for  their  headaches,  —  a  very 
quiet  sort  of  way,  to  be  sure,  that  nobody 
thought  much  about;  but  at  any  rate,  they  did 
not  laugh  at  what  she  said. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Jo  Courtis,  "Jane  doesn't 
care  for  the  pomp  and  vanities,  anyway,  which 
makes  a  difference;  do  you,  Jane?" 

The  question  was  thoughtless, — just  like  Jo. 
Gypsy  glanced  from  her  room-mate's  mourning 
dress  to  her  face,  on  which  a  slight  sadness  had 
settled.  Her  good  sense  told  her  that  Jane  was 
right.  It  told  her,  moreover,  that  Gypsy 
Breynton  was  a  little  ashamed  of  herself.  So 
she  spoke  up  in  her  honest  way, — 

"Anybody  want  my  sentiments  on  squirrel 


furs?  Don't?  What  a  pity!  For  you  see, 
you  '11  have  to  see  me  in  them  all  winter.  It 's 
either  that,  or  worrying  mother  for  fear  I  shall 
catch  my  death ;  so  you  'd  better  make  up  your 
minds  to  it.  Jane,  where  's  the  algebra  lesson?" 

Jane  was  gone,  as  she  was  very  apt  to  be ; 
and  nobody  thought  any  more  about  her. 

Not  long  after  this,  another  matter  came  up, 
which  troubled  Gypsy  more  than  anything  of 
the  kind  had  done  before. 

One  day  three  or  four  of  the  girls  appeared 
with  three  or  four  little  gold  stars,  all  just  alike, 
and  all  affixed  by  a  tiny  gold  chain  to  their 
pins.  They  were  inscribed  with  some  mysteri 
ous  hieroglyphics,  which  no  one  could  decipher 
without  coming  to  an  impertinent  nearness. 

"Why,  what  is  it?" 

"Did  you  ever? ' 

"  Where  did  they  get  them?  " 

"What  do  they  mean?  " 

"What  on  earth  do  they  keep  it  such  a 
dreadful  secret  for?" 

So   the    whispers    and    the   wonder    buzzed 

•9 


around  for  a  week,  but  the  wearers  kept  their 
lips  shut,  and  nobody  was  any  the  wiser.  At 
last  one  day  it  was  reported  that  the  gold 
stars  were  the  badges  of  a  Secret  Society,  the 
Chapter  of  the  Golden  Crescent,  solemnly 
founded  in  the  trunk  closet  on  the  fifteenth 
of  November,  and  solemnly  to  be  handed 
down  to  posterity  as  long  as  time  and  Mrs. 
McMunn's  should  endure. 

"Why,  how  splenafo//"  said  Gypsy.  I 
doubt  if  Gypsy  will  ever  outgrow  her  penchant 
for  boy's  plays. 

Jo  Courtis,  Jacqueline  Delancey,  Mary  Blunt, 
Lou  Armstrong,  and  the  Colchetts  were  the 
original  members.  There  was  a  breathless  sus 
pense  in  official  circles.  Would  the  illustri 
ous  band  enlarge  itself?  Who  would  be 
chosen  next? 

One  day  Maude  Clare  walked  into  Shake 
speare,  with  the  gold  star  hanging  from  her 
handsome  lapis-lazuli  pin.  Maude  Clare  tried 
not  to  look  important,  and  succeeded  in  look* 
ing  it  to  perfection. 


As  soon  as  the  recitation  was  over,  Gypsy 
flew  after  her,  and  begged  leave  to  examine  the 
badge.  Upon  one  side  was  a  cabalistic  design, 


which  might  have  been  a  toasting-fork,  or  a 
gravestone,  or  several  other  things. 

"  Or  a  teaspoon,  perhaps?"  suggested  Gypsy. 

"That's  telling,"  said  Maude  Clare.  Upon 
the  other  side  were  the  letters  @.  @,  hand 
somely  engraved  in  German  text. 

65 


"  E.  S.?  E.  S.?  What  on  earth  does  E.  S 
stand  for?" 

"  Guess." 

"  Well  —  Everlasting  Sinners?  * 

"  Guess  again." 

Gypsy  could  n't  guess. 

"  Evergreen  Sisters." 

"  Oh." 

"  That  is  to  say,  that 's  our  public  name. 
There  is  a  private  meaning,  of  course;  we're 
on  our  oath  not  to  tell  that." 

Gypsy  fingered  the  pretty  trinket  with  wist 
ful  eyes,  but  said  nothing. 

In  the  afternoon  Maude  Clare  came  into 
her  room  with  a  very  mysterious  air;  Jane 
Bruce,  seeing  that  she  was  not  wanted,  went 
out. 

"You  are  elected,  my  dear,"  said  Maude 
Clare,  solemnly. 

"Elected?" 

"  An  Evergreen  Sister.  I  am  appointed  a 
committee  of  one  to  notify  you." 

Gypsy  rose   demurely  from  her  chair,   and 

66 


jumped  up  and  down  three  times,  as  hard  as 
she  could  jump. 

"You  had  better  go  down  town  and  order 
your  badge  this  afternoon,  I  think,"  said  Maude 
Clare.  Gypsy  stopped  jumping. 

"How  much  does  it  cost?  "  she  said,  turning 
quickly  round. 

"  Oh,  only  five  dollars." 

Only   five  dollars !      It  might  as   well  have 
been  fifty.     Gypsy  walked  over  to  the  window. 
"Well?"  said  Maude  Clare. 
Gypsy  made  no    reply;   perhaps  she    could 
not  just  then;  she   was  bitterly   disappointed, 
and  stood  with   flushed  cheeks,  and   one  little 
pearl  of  a  tooth  biting  sharply  at  her  lip,  think 
ing  about  it.     She  had  five  dollars  in  her  purse, 
but  it  was  nearly  all  owing  to  her  washwoman. 
They  would  send    her   checks    from   home    as 
often  as  she  asked  for  them,  but  she  very  well 
knew  that  her  mother  had  set  apart  an  allow 
ance  for  the  term,  —  all  that  could  be  spared,  — • 
which  it  would  require  close  economy  to  come 
within.      There   was   no   twist  or  turn  which 


Gypsy  unpleasantly.  For  the  first  time, 
though  only  for  a  moment,  she  felt  not  quite 
satisfied  with  her  "  beautiful,  darling,  precious 
Maude  Clare." 

"  Tell  them  what  you  please,"  she  said,  and 
walked  away. 

That  night,  just  as  she  was  growing  sleepy, 
Jane  Bruce  heard  somebody  whispering.  She 
could  not  understand  a  word,  but  if  she  had, 
this  is  what  she  would  have  heard. 

"  I  did  n't,  —  no,  I  did  n't.  I  did  n't  come 
near  it.  I  only  thought  about  it  I  nearly  bit 
my  tongue  off,  too,  I  was  so  ashamed  to  think 
I  did  think  about  it.  But  then  you  know  I 
did  n't  do  it,  and  you  see  you  don't  know  a 
thing  about  it,  and  you  're  not  going  to,  either. 
No,  ma'am  !  " 

It  was  Gypsy,  talking  to  her  mother. 

She  chanced  to  be  writing  to  Tom  that 
night;  as  she  could  not  well  keep  a  secret 
from  Tom,  and  feeling  quite  safe,  she  told  him 
the  story  of  the  badge.  "  Just  to  fill  up,  you 
know.  Of  course  it  is  all  settled,  and  there  's 


no  use  in  talking  ab  iut  it  now;   but  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  hear. 

"  I  suppose  I   felt  pretty  badly  standing  up 
there  at  the  window  and  telling  Maude  Clare  I 


couldn't  afford  it;  I  was  just  such  a  little 
goose.  But  I  might  have  worse  things  to  feel 
badly  about,  mightn't  I,  you  blessed  old 
boy?" 


A  few  days  after,  a  stout-looking  letter  came 
from  New  Haven.  Gypsy  opened  it,  wonder 
ing;  and  out  dropped  five  dollars.  Concern 
ing  which,  Tom  had  this  to  say:  — 

MY  EVERGREEN  SISTER,  —  Run  right  down 
town  and  buy  your  badge.  You  need  n't  go  to 
making  up  any  of  your  horrible  faces,  for  it 's 
all  right  A  part  of  it  is  father's  New  Year's 
present,  a  little  ahead  of  time.  The  rest  I 
could  spare  just  as  well  as  not,  and  a  little 
better. 

Who  gave  me  all  the  cash  she  had,  about 
the  epoch  of  those  Freshman  scrapes?  to  say 
nothing  of  several  other  little  things.  If  you 
don't  remember, 

Yours  respectfully, 

T.  BREYNTON,  does. 

Happy  Gypsy,  after  writing  just  sixteen 
pages  of  protestations  and  thanks  to  Tom,  to 
which  he  made  answer  only  and  characteristi 
cally,  "  You  hush  up  !  "  —  concluded  that  there 


<vas  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  order  her  badge 
and  become  an  Evergreen  Sister.  Which  she 
became,  fifteen  minutes  after  study-hours,  on 
the  very  next  Tuesday  night. 

Now,  if  you  would  like  to  know,  I  think  on 
the  whole  I  will  tell  you,  that  this  account  of 
the  Society  of  the  Evergreen  Sisters  is  not  "  a 
story,"  but  true,  every  word  of  it.  How  I 
happen  to  know,  is  another  matter;  and  it 
would  be  very  inquisitive  in  you  to  ask;  espe 
cially  as  I  certainly  should  not  say.  I  will 
simply  observe  that  I  did  not  have  to  apply 
to  Gypsy  for  the  info*. nation. 

It  was  time  long  ago  for  another  chapter, 
but  we  really  must  stop  for  a  glance  at  that 
eagerly  expected  Tuesday  night.  As  the 
Evergreen  Sisters  long  ago  dissolved  partner^ 
ship  —  or,  as  Gypsy  more  classically  expresses 
it,  were  "  bounced  up,"  —  nobody  breaks  any 
oaths  in  telling  the  tale. 

Tuesday  night  came  as  fast  as  other  Tuesday 
nights,  though  it  seemed  leaden-footed  to  im 
patient  Gypsy;  and  at  a  quarter  of  nine  pre- 
73 


cisely,  the  Sisters  assembled  in  Maude  Clare's 
room.  They  were  all  there,  —  Maude,  and 
Jacqueline,  Jo  Courtis,  Lou,  and  Mary,  and 
the  Colchetts.  "  Poor  Miss  Holly  "  was  there 
too. 

"  Had  to  let  her  in,"  whispered  Maude 
Clare.  "Her  room,  you  know;  wouldn't 
budge  an  inch  ;  would  insist  on  going  to  bed ; 
could  n't  get  it  into  her  head  that  anything  was 
up.  What  would  you  do,  girls,  if  you  'd  been 
made  an  owl?  " 

After  some  whispering  among  the  others, 
the  two  new  members  of  the  Society  —  Susan 
Holly  and  Gypsy  —  were  put  into  a  corner  by 
themselves,  on  Maude's  large  trunk.  The 
lamps  were  turned  down  dimly;  the  curtains 
were  drawn  and  pinned  to  the  sills;  the  crack 
under  the  door,  and  the  key-hole  were  stuffed 
with  cotton  wool. 

"When  Mrs.  M.  comes  round  to  put  out 
lights,  she'll  think  that  the  inhabitants  have 
gone  to  bed,"  explained  Josephine.  "Jack  and 
I  do  that  little  thing  whenever  there 's  a  novel, 

74 


or  peanuts,  or  anything  going  on,  and  the 
woman  never  so  much  as  knocks,  '  does  n't 
want  to  disturb  our  sleep,'  bless  her  kind 
heart  !  " 

Finally  the  register  was  shut,  that  the  sound 
of  their  voices  might  not  be  carried  to  other 
rooms,  and  then  Jo  Courtis  taking  the  chair 
—  that  is  to  say,  seating  herself  on  Miss 
Holly's  study  table,  — opened  the  meeting  by 
announcing  that  the  new  members  would  now 
be  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  Ever 
green  Sisters  and  the  Chapter  of  the  Golden 
Crescent. 

Upon  that,  somebody  blindfolded  Gypsy, 
and  told  her  that  she  would  first  be  required  to 
kiss  the  Holy  Archives  of  the  Society,  which 
she,  reverently  proceeding  to  do,  splash !  went 
her  head  into  a  pail  of  very  cold  water.  After 
that  she  was  compelled  to  drink  of  the  choice 
and  ancient  wine  of  the  Society;  and,  if  you 
know  how  water  and  sugar  and  salt,  with  a  little 
Cayenne  pepper  and  a  touch  of  vinegar,  taste, 
you  will  know  how  that  tasted.  After  that 


there  was  a  spirited  endeavour  to  toss  her  in 
a  blanket;  but  the  blanket,  unfortunately,  was 
an  old  one,  and  Gypsy  was  heavy,  and  what 
should  it  do  but  split  the  whole  length  through 
the  middle,  and  land  Gypsy  with  such  a  noise 
on  the  floor,  that  Miss  Ayre  came  running 
upstairs,  and  severely  inquired  through  the  key 
hole  if  anybody  were  hurt  or  crazy?  After 
several  other  like  exploits,  of  which  the  time 
faileth  me  to  tell,  Gypsy  took  her  oath  upon 
Webster's  Unabridged,  to  keep  the  secrets  of 
the  Society  inviolate,  and  was  pronounced 
with  due  form  and  ceremony  an  Evergreen 
Sister. 

Miss  Holly  had  meantime  been  put  through 
a  similar  process,  and  Josephine  observed  that 
they  were  ready  to  begin. 

"Begin  to  what?"  asked  Gypsy.  "I  sup 
posed  we  had  come  to  the  end." 

Maude  Clare  replied  by  throwing  open  the 
closet  door,  and  disclosing  to  view  her  light- 
stand,  neatly  draped  with  a  clean  towel,  and 
covered  with  —  I  really  do  not  know  what 


not.  Cakes,  and  turnovers,  and  pies,  and 
lemons,  and  candy,  and  nuts,  and  all  the  indi 
gestible  horrors  that  heart  of  school-girl  could 
devise,  to  eat  at  ten  o'clock  at  night. 

"  And  what  does  E.  S.  stand  for,  my  dear?" 
asked  one  of  the  Colchetts. 

"Why,  I  suppose  —  " 

"  To  be  sure.  Eating  Society.  Yes ;  come, 
girls,  I  'm  dying  for  a  chocolate  cream." 

"  But  I  suppose  you  have  to  pay  for  it," 
said  Gypsy,  looking  up  from  her  cocoanut 
cakes  presently. 

"  Oh,  the  tax  is  voluntary,"  said  Maude 
Clare.  "/  give  fifty  cents  a  meeting;  only 
once  a  fortnight,  you  know." 

Again,  as  happened  so  often,  Gypsy  felt  a 
little  check  upon  her  merriment.  It  would 
seem  mean  to  contribute  less  than  the  rest. 
But  then,  she  must  make  up  her  mind  to  it; 
and  perhaps  Miss  Holly  would  keep  her 
company. 

The  more  pc:sonous  a  thing  is  to  eat,  and 
the  more  unearthly  the  hour  of  eating  it,  the 


77 


fuller  the  room  is  of  kerosene  gas  from  the  low« 
burning  lamps,  the  colder  it  is  with  the  register 
shut  off,  the  greater  the  risk  of  a  teacher  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and  the  deeper  the  mystery 
and  excitement  and  hush  and  discomfort,  the 
merrier  girls  will  be.  Very  merry  were  the 
Evergreen  Sisters;  as  for  to-morrow's  head 
aches  and  dyspepsia  and  bad  lessons  and 
"  blues  "  and  crossness,  if  anybody  thought  of 
them,  —  why,  sufficient  unto  the  day  was  the 
evil  thereof;  as  Josephine  said,  if  that  wasn't 
a  scriptural  principle,  she  should  like  to  know 
what  was. 

Mrs.  McMunn  came  her  rounds  before  the 
lemonade  was  gone;  found  the  cotton  in  the 
keyhole,  and  passed  on,  leaving  the  girls  all  in 
a  heap  in  the  closet,  stuffing  their  handker 
chiefs  into  their  mouths  to  keep  from  laughing. 

It  was  about  half-past  ten  when  Gypsy  crept 
into  bed  over  Jane  Bruce's  feet,  convinced  that 
the  Evergreen  Sisters  were  a  great  success. 

One  thing  she  did  not  feel  quite  at  ease 
about,  —  the  little  deception  practised  on  Mrs. 
H 


McMunn.  She  said  so  the  next  day  to  Maude 
Clare.  Maude  laughed  at  her,  and  called  hei 
a  particular  child,  but  said  that  they  should 
break  up  early  after  this.  Mrs.  McMunn  had 
suspected  that  something  was  in  the  wind  last 
night,  and  it  was  deemed  advisable.  The  time 
between  study-hours  and  ten  o'clock  was  their 
own,  and  Gypsy  felt  no  further  scruples  about 
being  an  Evergreen  Sister. 

It  was  enough  to  break  down  the  constitu 
tion  of  a  giant,  to  be  sure;  but  "girls  will  be 
girls,"  and  I  am  only  telling  what  happened. 

If,  however,  any  poor  victim  stimulated  to 
imitation  should  go  and  do  likewise,  I  should 
repent  having  written  this  chapter,  in  dust  and 
ashes,  to  the  day  of  my  death. 


AUDE  CLARE  had  a  box. 
The  expressman  had  not  rung 
the  door-bell,  before  every 
body  in  the  house,  from 
Phoebe  Hand  on  the  lower 
floor,  up  to  Jane  Bruce  in 
the  attic,  knew  that  Maude  Clare  had  a  box. 
Gypsy  jumped  and  ran;  Jane  put  away  her 
books;  Phcebe  limped  out  into  the  hall;  the 
whole  second  floor  swarmed  to  the  banisters, 
and  peered  over,  —  a  medley  of  eyes,  ribbons, 
Waterfalls,  curls,  streamers,  danglers,  and 
whispers. 

"  If  it  shouldrit  be  anything  to  eat !  "   said 
Mary  Blunt,  who  had  been  eating  taffy  all  day, 


and  shagbarks  all  yesterday,  and  Ladies'  drops 
all  the  day  before,  and  something  else  every 
day  since  anybody  could  remember. 

"  It  looks  like  a  bonnet." 

"  Or  a  foot-tub,  perhaps.'* 

"  Or  books." 

"The  idea  of  sending  Maude  books?" 

"Well,  if  it  shouldn't!"  sighed  Mary. 

"Oh,  Mary  Blunt!"  But  Jo  sighed  when 
Mary  sighed,  and  Jacqueline  sighed  when  Jo 
sighed,  and  in  fact  Mary  cared  no  more  about 
it  than  the  rest,  except  that  she  had  the 
courage  to  say  so.  And  if  you  should  observe, 
after  reading  this  book,  that  Gypsy's  school 
mates  never  did  anything  but  eat,  I  should  say 
that  I  really  doubt  if  they  ever  did. 

Maude  was  hammering  away  at  her  box,  and 
denting  her  pretty  fingers  on  the  nails,  and  the 
cover  was  coming  off. 

"Apples?" 

The  row  of  eyes  over  the  banisters  bright 
ened  like  a  galaxy. 

"  It  is  n't,  either !      It 's  only  red  strings  to 


Maude's  winter  bonnet !  "  and  the  row  of  eyes 
over  the  banisters  looked  like  a  little  thunder 
cloud. 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  —  it  is  a  plum  cake  and  a 
bottle  of  pickles !  Girls,  we  never  saw  such  a 
duck  of  a  bonnet  as  Maude's,  did  we?  It's  the 
sweetest  love  in  school,  is  n't  it?  " 

This  came  from    Mary   Blunt,  and    the    rest 
flew  after  her  down  the  stairs.      Even  Maude  — 
and  nobody  liked  to  have  her  pretty  things  ad 
mired  better  than  Maude    Clare  —  was  a   little 
suspicious  of  the   singular   amount  of  interest 
that  her  bonnet  excited.     She  went  away  up 
stairs  with  it  rather  haughtily,  —  that  is  to  say, 
as  haughtily  as  she  conveniently  could,  under 
the  circumstances,  for  the  box  was  heavy,  and 
the  nails  stuck  into  her  chin. 
"  She  is  n't  going  to  stand  that !  " 
"  Just  like  Maude ;  she  's  a  stingy  thing  !  " 
"  Gypsy  Breynton,  you  go  up  after  her!  " 
Gypsy  preferred  to  wait  till  she  was  sent  for, 
and  did  so.     Maude  Clare  called  her  up  at  last. 
Cake  and  pickles  were  nowhere   to   be   seen; 


Maude  stood  before  the  glass,  with  the  winter1 
bonnet  —  a  rich  velvet  affair,  which  the  light 
struck  as  it  strikes  a  garment  —  tied  over  her 
onyx  hair. 

"Pretty,  isn't  it?" 

"  Very." 

Gypsy  stood  admiring  it,  and  the  face  inside 
83 


of  it,  but  she  was  thinking  about  the  pickles. 
What  did  the  girls  mean  by  calling  Maude 
Clare  "stingy"? 

Presently  Maude  put  away  her  bonnet,  went 
to  the  closet,  and  brought  out  a  little  —  a  very 
little  cucumber  on  a  fork. 

"  I  would  give  you  more,"  she  said,  "  but  I  'm 
going  to  save  them  for  to-night.  We  will  have 
the  girls  in  after  Biblical,  and  have  a  Heigh-o." 

"  Oh,  splendid  !  "  Gypsy  brightened ;  so 
Maude  Clare  was  n't  stingy,  and  the  girls  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  themselves.  "  And  the  cake 
too?" 

"  No,  not  the  cake,"  said  Maude  Clare,  look 
ing  a  little  displeased. 

Gypsy's  face  fell  once  more.  Was  she  —  a 
little?  or  wasn't  she? 

It  was  the  custom  at  the  Golden  Crescent  to 
consider  boxes  from  home  as  common  prop 
erty.  There  was  not  a  girl  in  school  but  her 
"  beautiful,  darling,  precious  Maude  Clare," 
who  would  have  locked  up  her  plum  cake  in 
the  drawer  for  private  consumption. 


"  Is  n't  Maude  going  to  have  a  Bang-up  to 
night?  What!  only  the  pickles?  Whe — w!" 

This  was  Jo  Courtis'  judgment. 

"  But  I  'm  sure,  Jo,  it  was  very  good  in  her 
to  give  us  those,"  argued  Gypsy,  trying  to 
comfort  herself. 

However  nobody  objected  in  the  least  to  tak 
ing  what  they  could  get,  and  at  nine  o'clock 
Maude  Clare's  room  was  crowded.  Miss  Holly 
had  built  a  particularly  good  fire,  and  Miss 
Holly  had  brought  in  chairs,  and  Miss  Holly 
had  dusted  off  the  trunks,  and  Miss  Holly  had 
borrowed  plates  of  the  housekeeper,  and  Miss 
Holly  had  done  all  the  work,  generally,  as  she 
was  very  apt  to  do,  while  Maude  Clare  did  the 
honours,  and  looked  handsome. 

But  make  the  best  they  would  of  the  re 
past,  there  was  certainly  a  most  uncomfor 
table  consciousness  of  an  aching  void  in  every 
heart. 

"  But  clear,  bare,  unadulterated  pickles*  you 
know !  "  said  Josephine,  pausing  at  the  outset 
of  a  mouthful. 

as 


"  They  last  so  long  and  they  do  seem  te 
taste  so  exactly  the  same  all  the  way  through !  " 
remarked  Mary  Blunt,  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"  Plum  cake  would  n't  be  the  thing  at  all," 
said  Gypsy,  in  an  anxious  undertone ;  "  it  is  n't 
Maude's  fault." 

"  Go  down  and  lay  siege  to  Nancy,"  sug 
gested  somebody;  and  Jo  went  down.  She 
was  gone  about  ten  minutes. 

"  It  must  be  something  extra  superfine,  you 
see,"  said  Gypsy,  "  it  has  taken  her  so  long  to 
tease  it  out."  Jo  came  in  laughing. 

"  Here  is  a  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the 
king  !  —  speaking  of  kings.  Oh,  my  bleeding 
heart !  you  ought  to  have  seen  me  squeezed 
up  there  behind  the  door  on  the  back  stairs, 
waiting  for  Madame  la  Holt  to  clear  the  way ; 
nearly  twisted  my  neck  off,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  spiders,  and  stepping  on  the  cat  and  then 
choking  her  so  she  should  n't  howl  over  it,  — 
and  just  look  here." 

Three  cold  fish-balls  on  a  cracked  saucer ! 

"  That  depraved  female  has  either  been  read- 


ing  her  Bible,  or  getting  her  quarter's  wages," 
observed  Mary  Blunt,  after  a  solemn  pause. 

"  I  'm  going  down  to  appeal  to  the  humanity 
>f  Dolly.  I  gave  Dolly  two  old  crinolines  and 

linen  collar  last  week;  habit  of  mine  to  pro 
vide  for  emergencies ;  you  see  if  I  don't  bring 
up  bread  and  butter  for  you  —  hot  bread  ;  crisp 
pieces  of  crust;  right  out  of  the  oven;  with 
the  butter  melting." 

Mary  was  gone  another  ten  minutes,  and 
came  back  with  a  tumbler  of  water. 

"  Take  it  somebody,  do  !  I  can't  hold  it  for 
laughing.  Here,  Lou  Armstrong,  you  must 
faint  right  away  if  you  have  the  least  regard  for 
my  conscience.  Ran  into  Mrs.  M.  splash ! 
Knocked  off  her  waterfall  —  you  ought  to  have 
seen  it  spin !  —  begged  her  pardon,  but  my 
feelings  were  agitated  —  my  room-mate  was 
sick,  and  wanted  a  glass  of  water.  And  —  Oh 
dear !  the  woman  was  so  compassionate,  and 
offered  to  come  up  and  see  her !  Would  n't 
anybody  have  the  goodness  to  be  thirsty !  " 

The    prospect   began   to   look   serious;    the 

87 


"  clear,  bare,  unadulterated  pickles,"  impossi* 
ble,  through  that  hope  deferred,  which  maketh 
the  heart  sick. 

At  last  Maude  Clare  said  that  she  had 
thought  of  a  plan.  Maude  Clare  was  famous 
for  thinking  of  plans,  and  very  willing  to  look 
on  and  see  somebody  else  carry  them  out. 

'•  There  is  a  plate  of  oyster  crackers  on  the 
china  closet  shelf;  I  saw  them  this  noon,  when 
we  had  n't  enough  for  the  oysters,  and  Dolly 
said  they  were  all  gone."  Maude  was  inter 
rupted  by  a  chorus  of  "  Just  the  thing !  " 

"And  Gypsy  might  go  down  —  she's  so 
little  —  through  the  dining-room  ;  there  is  n't 
a  soul  there ;  if  anybody  comes,  she  can  whisk 
up  the  kitchen  stairs,  and  if  anybody  comes 
from  the  kitchen,  she  can  want  my  Testament 
that  I  dropped  under  the  dining-room  table  at 
Biblical.  You  are  so  little,  you  know,  Gypsy, 
and  can  get  out  of  the  way  like  a  squirrel.  I 
would  go  myself,  but  I'm  always  so  big; 
everybody  sees  me" 

Gypsy's   eyes  had  begun  to  twinkle  at  th« 

S3 


prospect.  What  good  fun  it  would  be !  And 
when  a  thing  promised  good  fun,  Gypsy  was 
not  apt  to  think  very  far  'about  it. 

"  Good  !  I  '11  do  it.  Here  I  bequeath  you 
my  pickle,  girls,  if  I  come  to  an  untimely  end. 
Keep  it  sacred  to  my  memory,  will  you?"  So, 
with  her  bubbling  laugh,  she  bounded  away 
from  them,  and  downstairs. 

The  entry  was  nearly  dark.  The  lamp  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  had  gone  out,  and  only 
the  light  from  the  front  hall  fell  in  faintly.  The 
house  was  quite  still. 

Mademoiselle  was  correcting  exercises  in  the 
back  parlour.  Jacqueline  Delancey  had  fallen 
asleep  over  her  practising,  in  the  music-room. 
Phoebe  Hand's  room  was  just  opposite  the  din 
ing-room  door,  but  Phcebe  Hand's  room  was 
always  still.  Phcebe  roomed  with  Miss  Ayre, 
and  that  kept  the  girls  away.  Besides,  as 
Maude  Clare  said,  "  a  lame  girl  is  n't  nice  com 
pany;  she  can't  go  about;  and  then  it  makes 
you  nervous  to  see  an  ugly  crutch  round  all  the 

time,  though,  to  be  sure,  it  is  n't  her  fault." 
89 


Gypsy  stole  into  the  dining-room,  and 
looked  around;  crept  to  the  closet  door,  and 
looked  around;  nobody  was  to  be  seen;  nobody 
was  to  be  heard.  A  little  fleck  of  light  fell 
through  a  chink  in  the  kitchen  door,  and  fell 
exactly  upon  the  plate  of  crackers. 

She  stepped  in  on  the  softest  tiptoe,  leaving 
the  door  open  a  crack  behind  her,  for  the  sake 
of  the  light.  The  plate  was  large,  and  very 
full.  She  could  not  move  it  without  rattling 
off  its  contents,  and  she  reflected  that  to  climb 
the  side  stairs  dropping  crackers  all  the  way, 
and  that  within  an  entry's  width  of  Miss  Ayer, 
would  be  an  undertaking  more  rash  than  val 
orous.  Accordingly  she  decided  to  put  the 
crackers  into  her  pocket.  Maude  had  a  plate 
upstairs,  and  school-girls  are  not  particular. 

The  last  cracker  was  just  in,  when  she  heard 
a  noise.  Somebody  groping  for  the  door- 
handle,  and  before  she  could  stir,  somebody 
groping,  groping,  across  the  dining-room;  then 
a  resounding  blow,  and  a  crash,  and  a  groan, 
and  a  voice,  — 


"Oh,  the  Land's  End!  Oh,  goodness  gra 
cious  mercy  on  me !  I  've  gone  over  that 
rocking-chair  again  !  Nancy,  Nancy  !  Here  ! 
You've  let  that  entry  lamp  go  out,  and  this  is 
the  third  time  I  've  broken  my  bones  over  Mrs. 
McMunn's  rocking-chair,  this  blessed  night. 
Come  right  along  with  a  match  now,  as  quick 
as  you  can !  " 

Gypsy,  in  the  closet,  choked  and  gasped, 
and  stuffed  her  mouth  with  crackers  to  keep 
herself  from  laughing.  Nancy  came,  mutter 
ing,  with  a  lamp,  and  the  housekeeper  scolded 
till  her  ankle-bones  felt  better. 

"  You  may  leave  the  lamp,"  she  said  then. 
"  I  want  to  use  it,  to  lock  up  for  the  night." 

Oh  dear  !  Oh  dear !  she  was  coming  into  the 
closet !  Already  her  heavy  steps  sounded  half 
way  across  the  room,  limped  by  the  register, 
thundered  up  to  the  door.  Gypsy  had  but  an 
instant  to  think.  A  barrel,  nearly  empty,  stood 
under  the  shelves.  She  whisked  it  out,  climbed 
into  it,  gave  a  little  lurch  partly  back  under  the 
shelves,  and  crouched  there,  waiting.  Mrs. 


Holt  came  in  with  her  lamp  in  her  hand,  and 
her  spectacles  on  her  nose. 

Gypsy  held  her  breath.  Mrs.  Holt  dusted  a 
plate,  and  looked  into  the  sugar-bowl;  shook 
down  the  salt-cellars;  looked  in  the  macaroni 
drawer,  and  counted  the  tumblers. 

Gypsy,  becoming  suffocated,  gave  a  little 
gasp. 

Mrs.  Holt  stopped,  and  looked  around. 

"  Another  mouse,  I  declare !  Nancy,  bring 
the  trap." 

Nancy  brought  the  trap,  and  the  housekeeper, 
after  setting  it,  put  it  down  behind  Gypsy's 
barrel. 

"  Nancy !  "  she  called  again.  Nancy  came 
back. 

"  Have  you  been  meddling  with  this  barrel, 
—  pushing  it  out  in  this  style,  from  under  the 
shelf  ?  " 

Nancy    had    not    been   meddling    with    the 
barrel,  and   Nancy  wished,  though  this  was  in 
an  undertone,  that  folks  would  mind  their  busi 
ness,  and  let  her  go  to  bed  in  peace. 
92 


Mrs.  Holt  took  hold  of  the  barrel  with  her 
stout  arms,  and  rolled  it  up  with  a  jerk  into  the 
corner,  under  the  shelves. 

"  I  v/ould  n't  have  thought  of  its  being  so 
heavy,"  she  remarked  half  aloud,  as  she  paused 
for  breath.  "There  must  be  more  sugar  left 
than  I  supposed." 

Upon  that,  she  went  out,  shut  the  door, 
locked  it,  put  the  key  in  her  pocket,  and 
limped  away. 

"  And  never  thought  a  thing  about  the 
crackers !  "  gasped  Gypsy,  through  her  stifled 
laughter.  "  Locked  me  in,  with  them  in  my 
pocket.  Oh,  I  never  did  !  How  the  girls  will 
laugh  !  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  Now  it 's  only  to 
jerk  out  my  barrel  from  under  this  old  shelf, 
and  then  in  through  the  dumb  waiter  into  the 
kitchen  and  up  the  back  stairs.  Nancy  will  be 
abed,  or  if  she  is  n't,  why,  I  '11  give  her  an  old 
necktie  to-morrow,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of 
her.  Now,  Mrs.  Halt,  we  '11  see  ?  " 

See,  she  did,  in  a  very  unexpected  manner. 
For  the  sugar  barrel  absolutely  refused  to 

93 


move.  She  jerked  it  and  turned  it ;  she  leaned 
over  on  this  side,  she  leaned  over  on  the  other; 
she  worked  herself  round  in  it;  she  jumped 
up  and  down  in  it  —  that  is  to  say,  she  rose  and 
fell  a  very  little  way  laboriously,  bumping  her 
head  each  time  against  the  shelf.  But  all 
to  no  purpose.  The  barrel  remained  in  statu 
quo. 

"You  —  won't  —  will  you?"  said  Gypsy, 
apostrophising  it  slowly.  "  Now,  my  dear,  if 
I  were  a  barrel,  I  would  n't ;  I  really  would  n't. 
I  don't  think  it 's  sweet-tempered  in  you ;  and 
who  has  facilities  for  cultivating  sweet  temper, 
if  you  haven't?  Now,  if  Jo  Courtis  gets  over 
this  in  a  term  !  I  don't  see  as  there  is  anything 
to  do  but  to  call  the  daughters  of  Erin. 

"  Nancy !  Dolly !  Nancy !  "  Somebody  was 
shuffling  about  the  kitchen,  but  nobody 
answered. 

"Nancy/" 

The  shuffling  stopped,  apparently  in  some 
alarm. 

"  Nancy !  Nancy  Donnavan  I  Let  me  out ! " 


"  Arrah !  The  howly  mither !  What 's  that 
now?" 

"It's  I  locked  up  here  in  a  barrel,  and  I 
can't  get  out !  "  called  Gypsy.  "  You  crawl 
in  the  dumb  waiter,  and  pull  me  out,  you 
know.  Nan-try,  unfasten  the  dumb  waiter, 
quick !  " 

The  only  answer  was  a  quick  stampede,  as 
of  some  one  hiding  behind  the  pantry  door, 
and  a  terrified,  panting  breath  broken  up  into 
short  cries  of  "  Oh,  Lor'  have  mercy !  "  "  An' 
it's  kilt  intirely  I  am  with  the  fear!"  And 
"To  think  of  their  selthin'  afther  a  poor 
creether  this  time  o' night — the  very  time  this 
day  year,  me  third  cousin  died  of  the  liver  com 
plaint,  an'  me  sole  an'  alon'  in  the  kitchen ! 
Oh,  good  gracious  !  " 

Gypsy,  rinding  that  any  ordinary  noise  which 
she  could  make  rather  complicated  than  bet 
tered  her  prospects  of  release,  began  forthwith 
to  make  a  most  extraordinary  one.  She  rattled 
the  barrel,  she  pounded  the  barrel;  she 
bumped  the  shelf ;  she  slapped  the  shelf; 


she  shouted  after  Nancy  till  her  breath 
out. 

Nancy  gave  one  howl, — 

"  Och  !  it 's  the  ghost  of  him,  as  true  as  I  'm 
a  livin'  sinner !  The  Virgin  an'  the  blessed 
Saints  have  mercy  on  us,"  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head,  and  tore  upstairs  as  if  her  last 
hour  had  come. 

It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  laugh  now,  no 
matter  what  the  consequences. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Miss  Ayre,  coming  to  her 
door  in  her  night-dress,  and  putting  the  edge 
of  her  sharp  chin  out  into  the  cool  entry  air, 
"  what  a  racket !  Do  you  know  what  mischief 
the  girls  are  up  to  to-night,  Phcebe?  On  the 
whole,  though,  I  think  it  must  be  Nancy 
putting  away  her  tubs." 

She  went  back  and  shut  the  door,  and  after 
that  the  house  was  still.  Very  still ;  in  fact,  it 
seemed  to  Gypsy  as  if  she  had  never  known  it 
so  still.  Her  very  breaths  sounded  like  groans, 
and  a  crack  of  the  barrel  like  a  thunderclap. 
What  was  to  be  done?  The  idea  of  staying 

c6 


locked  up  all  night  in  a  china-closet — in  a 
barrel  —  under  a  shelf!  Jerk  herself  free  she 
could  not,  and  tip  herself  over  she  dared  not. 
Such  a  noise  in  that  deathly  stillness  would 
wake  every  echo  and  every  inmate  of  the 
house.  The  chance  of  crawling  through  into 
the  kitchen  and  escaping  upstairs  before  dis 
covery  was  too  slight  to  be  worth  the  risk. 
Besides,  the  dumb  waiter  might  be  fastened 
upon  the  other  side. 

"  C-h-a-r-ming  little  fix  !  Now  I  should  like 
to  know !  Let  me  see ;  if  I  tip  over,  —  no,  I 
won't  tip  over.  Mrs.  M.  would  be  frantic.  If 
I  stay  where  I  am  and  go  to  sleep,  why,  by- 
and-by  it  will  be  morning,  and  Nancy  will  be 
up  building  the  furnace  fire  early,  and  if  she 
does  n't  expect  her  third  cousin  to  walk  round 
by  daylight,  she  will  let  me  out ;  and  what  '.s 
more,  she  will  hold  her  tongue  about  it.  But 
to  sleep  in  a  sugar-barrel !  Let 's  taste ;  yes, 
to  be  sure.  I  wonder  how  many  pounds  there 
are,  or  quarts  —  don't  they  sell  sugar  by  the 
quart?  I  wonder  if  I  shall  have  to  pay  for  it 

97 


You  blessed  little  woman  at  home,  what  would 
you  think  of  this?  I  wonder  what  the  girls 
did  —  with  —  my  —  pick-le  —  and  —  " 

By  the  time  that  she  had  thought  as  far  as 
this,  she  was  asleep.  So,  by  that  time,  was 
every  one  else.  Maude  Clare  and  the  rest, 
finding  that  she  and  the  crackers  did  not  make 
their  appearance,  supposed  that  she  had  been 
playing  a  trick  upon  them,  and  was  gone  to 
bed.  Jane  Bruce,  sound  asleep  half  an  hour 
ago,  did  not  suppose  anything  about  her. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  there  was  an 
unearthly  noise  in  the  china-closet.  Gypsy, 
dreaming  that  there  was  a  mouse  down  her 
neck,  had  tipped  over  her  barrel. 

Miss  Ayre  came  to  her  door  and  screamed 
"  Robbers !  "  Mrs.  Holt  appeared  in  an  in 
describable  wrapper,  groped  into  the  dining- 
room,  tripped  over  the  inevitable  rocking-chair, 
and  fiercely  demanded,  "Who's  there?  Mr. 
Holt,  bring  along  that  gun ! "  This  worthy 
man,  twenty  years  since  departed  to  a  world 
where  thieves  do  not  break  through  and  steal, 
H 


was  invariably  —  at  least  so  ran  the  traditiofc 
—  made  formidable  use  of  against  that  per 
sistent  burglar  by  whom  the  dreams  of  his 
valiant  relict  were  almost  nightly  disturbed. 
"  Mr.  Holt's  gun  "  had  passed  into  a  proverb 
at  the  Golden  Crescent,  but  never  with  her  own 
ears  had  Gypsy  actually  heard  it  appealed  to 
before.  It  took  her  so  long  to  smother  her 
laughter  and  gain  her  breath,  that  Mrs.  Hcit 
had  gone  back  to  bed,  and  the  house  was  s'«.  11 
again,  and  she  had  not  called  for  help. 

"  However,  now  I  'm  tipped  over,"  she 
thought,  "  I  don't  see  what  is  to  prevent  my 
trying  the  dumb  waiter  and  getting  upstairs  in 
my  stocking-feet  —  Hilloa ! " 

The  dumb  waiter  was  fastened  upon  the 
other  side. 

There  being  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  to  sleep 
again,  Gypsy  lay  down  with  her  head  in  the 
barrel,  and  went  to  sleep  ;  and  that  was  the  last 
she  knew  till  it  was  morning,  and  somebody 
was  trying  the  key  in  the  door. 

Mrs.   Holt  had   waked    at   six   o'clock   and 


wjiought  of  those  crackers,  and,  forthwith  jump 
Ing  into  her  dressing-gown  and  spectacles, 
down  she  had  come,  frowning  and  suspicious, 
to  see  if  they  were  safe. 

She  flung  open  the  door  and  glared  in. 
There  lay  Gypsy,  with  her  head  in  the  sugar- 
barrel. 

"  Miss  BREYNTON  !  "  said  Mrs.  Holt,  in  a 
voice  of  thunder. 

"  Ma'am  ?  "  said  Gypsy,  sleepily. 

"Is  \hhyou?" 

"I —  suppose  so,"  said  Gypsy,  faintly.  "1 
don't  —  know  —  exactly.  I  went  to  sleep,  and 
then-" 

Mrs.  Holt  solemnly  took  off  her  spectacles, 
solemnly  rubbed  them,  solemnly  put  them  on 
again,  solemnly  pinched  Gypsy  to  see  if  she 
were  flesh  and  blood,  locked  the  door  upon 
her,  and  went  straight  to  Mrs.  McMunn. 

Gypsy  waited  and  trembled.  Mrs.  McMunn 
came  with  awful  haste,  threw  open  the  door, 
and  stood  speechless.  In  the  agitation  conse 
quent  upon  Mrs.  Holt's  announcemeal,  the 


good  lady  had  succeeded  in  fastening  her 
waterfall  precisely  in  a  line  with  her  right  ear, 
and  there  it  hung — gracefully  swaying,  tremu 
lous  yet,  from  her  hurried  descent  of  the  stairs. 


Gypsy  became  so  much  interested  in  watching 
it  that  she  very  nearly  forgot  what  Mrs. 
McMunn  had  come  for.  The  Principal,  how* 
ever,  quickly  restored  her  memory. 


»ox 


"  Miss  Gypsy  Breynton !  " 

"  Yes,  'm,  I  know  it,"  said  Gypsy,  meekly. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Mc« 
Munn,  with  a  severe  shake  of  her  waterfall, — > 
"I  should  like  to  know,  if  you  will  be  so  good 
as  to  tell  me,  how  you  came  here,  and  what 
you  have  been  doing." 

Just  then  something  rattled  out  of  Gypsy's 
pocket,  and  spun  away  over  the  bare  floor. 

"  It 's  my  crackers  !  "  screamed  the  house 
keeper,  looking  in  over  Mrs.  McMunn's  shoul 
ders.  "  It 's  those  crackers,  that  I  lay  awake 
half  the  night  over,  I  was  so  anxious  about 
them.  Oh,  the  Land's  End  !  to  think  of  it !  " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Gypsy.  "  Yes,  the  girls 
wanted  the  crackers,  Mrs.  McMunn,  and  I 
never  thought,  and  so  I  came  down  and  Mrs. 
Holt  locked  me  in,  and  then  you  see  I  thought 
there  was  a  mouse  in  my  neck  and  the  barrel 
tipped  me  over,  and  I'm  very  sorry,  Mrs. 
McMunn,  but  you  can't  think  how  funny  it  was, 
I  don't  think  you  can  possibly  think  how  funny 
it  was,  unless  you  were  to  see  me,  now  really." 


The  teacher's  mouth  twitched  a  little. 

"  Miss  Breynton,  we  have  had  enough  of  this 
levity,  I  think  we  have  had  enough  of  this  levity." 

"  Yes,  'm,"  replied  Gypsy  mildly,  regarding 
her  with  an  attentive  air. 

"  You  're  not  attending  to  what  I  say !  "  said 
her  teacher,  rather  sharply.  "  What  are  you 
looking  at?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  beg  your  pardon ! "  Gypsy 
blushed  all  over.  "I  was  only  thinking — I 
was  only  looking  — " 

"At  what?"  insisted  the  Principal. 

"At  your  —  your  waterfall,  you  know." 

It  was  now  Mrs.  McMunn's  turn  to  blush. 
She  felt  round  her  head  with  both  hands,  after 
the  unfortunate  waterfall,  till  she  found  it; 
when,  by  way  of  improving  the  matter,  she 
took  it  off  and  put  it  in  her  pocket.  Gypsy 
felt  that  the  scene  beggared  description,  but 
look,  she  dared  not. 

"Altogether  too  much  levity,"  repeated  the 
Principal,  as  severely  as  she  knew  how. 
"And  I  really  never  would  have  supposed, 


Miss   Breynton,   that    you    could    be    capable 
of—" 

"  Mrs.  McMunn,"  interrupted  Gypsy,  seriously. 
-'  If  you  had  spent  the  night  in  a  sugar-barrel, 
squeezed  up  in  a  funny  little  heap  — you  Ve  no 
idea  what  a  funny  little  heap  it  would  make 
of  you  —under  an  old  shelf,  and  bumped  your 
head  every  time  you  stirred,  and  found  the  dumb 
waiter  locked  on  top  of  it,  and  all,  you  would  n't 
want  to  be  scolded  very  badly,  Mrs.  McMunn." 

"  In  the  sugar-barrel !  Oh,  Miss  Breynton, 
Miss  Breynton ! " 

Mrs.  McMunn  gave  up  all  efforts  at  com 
posure,  collapsed  upon  the  nearest  firkin,  and 
laughed  till  she  cried.  She  seemed  to  recol 
lect,  at  last,  that  Gypsy  remained  there  to  be 
scolded,  and  grew  suddenly  severe  again. 

"  I  really  never  should  have  thought  you 
capable,  Miss  Gypsy,  of  stealing  anybody's 
crackers,  much  less  —  " 

"  Stealing !  " 

"Certainly,  my  dear.  What  was  it  if  it 
wasn't  stealing?" 


"  Why,  so  it  was,"  said  horrified  Gypsy, 
after  some  consideration.  "  Why,  I  never 
thought !  Why,  how  funny  !  " 

"  Funny  i  "  said  poor  Mrs.  McMunn,  in  im 
minent  danger  of  subsiding  upon  the  firkin  again. 
"  Funny,  Miss  Breynton?  Why,  really,  I — " 

"What  will  that  blessed  woman  say?" 
observed  Gypsy  in  an  undertone,  seriously 
enough.  "  Stealing !  And  I  must  tell  her  all 
about  it  to-night.  And  to  think  it  never 
crossed  my  mind  now !  " 

"What  blessed  woman,  my  dear?"  asked 
Mrs.  McMunn,  looking  very  much  flattered. 

"  Only  my  mother,"  said  Gypsy,  looking  up. 
"  Mrs.  McMunn,  I  believe  I  've  been  a  horrid 
little  wretch,  and  I  ask  your  pardon,  you  know, 
and  I  '11  pay  for  the  sugar,  but  I  'm  sure  I  did 
not  mean  to  be  a  horrid  little  wretch,  and  if 
you  please,  I  '11  never  get  into  any  of  your 
sugar-barrels  again.  I  don't  suppose  I  ever 
shall  hear  the  last  of  this,  though." 

She  never  did. 


GYPSY,  —  Why      don't     Mrs. 

Makmunn  let  you  come  home? 

I  don't  like  her.  If  I  should 
just  see  her,  I  'd  knock  her  down,  sir,  and 
then  I  'd  stamp  on  her,  and  then  I  'd  frow 
sum  orful  cold  watter  on  her.  My  Cat  had  2 
fits ;  she  skratched  Mrs.  Surly  too.  I  swallerd 
a  apple-seed  yesterday,  Why  won't  it  gro  upp 
into  a  napple-tree  inside  of  me.  I  would  n't 
like  that.  Tommy  Rowe's  dorg  she  laid  him 
4  little  dorgs  last  week.  They  have  n't  got  any 
feathers.  Besides,  they  're  blind,  and  Besides, 
they  can't  see  anything.  Father  says  if  I  etc 
so  much  pop  corn,  I  shan't  live  long  enuff 
to  gro  up  and  keep  my  kandy-shop.  I  am 


106 


bigger  'n  I  was  when  you  were  hear.  I  am 
a  big  Boy  and  go  two  Sundy-School  now.  I 
know  about  Elijah.  I  would  like  to  be  as  good 
Mann  as  Elijah  was.  Of  kourse  a  Prophett  is 
a  great  deal  gooder  than  a  kandy-man.  Now 
you  just  write  me  a  leter  as  good  as  this. 
MR.  WINNIE  BREYNTON. 

Yorkbury,  Vt 

Gypsy  laid  down  the  letter  laughing,  and 
took  up  her  mother's.  She  had  already  read 
that  through  twice,  but  one  part  of  it  much 
surprised  and  somewhat  puzzled  her.  So, 
thinking  it  over,  she  read  it  again.  It  ran  thus : 

Be  on  your  guard  a  little,  Gypsy.  There 
will  be,  figuratively  speaking,  a  good  many 
plates  of  crackers  at  the  Golden  Crescent, 
which  will  draw  you  into  locked  closets,  unless 
you  are  on  the  watch  against  being  led.  Be 
cause  the  girls  are  older  than  you,  they  have 
a  certain  advantage  of  influence.  Struggle 
against  it.  Take  your  own  time  to  think,  and 
act  as  you  think,  if  what  you  think  is  right 


Yoar  "  beautiful,  darling,  precious  Maude 
Clare/'  for  instance ;  she  may  be  a  very  nice 
girl,  but  remember  that  you  do  not  yet  know 
very  much  about  her.  If,  some  day  or  other, 
you  should  find  out  that  she  is  not  exactly 


108 


what  she  seems  to  you  to  be  —  in  fact,  that 
she  is  something  very  different  from  what  she 
seems  to  you  to  be,  it  would  be  only  what  has 
happened  in  girls'  lives  ever  since  there  have 
been  any  girls.  However,  any  such  discoveries 
that  are  to  be  made,  you  must  make  for  your 
self.  I  only  throw  out  now  and  then  a  bit  of  a 
hint,  by  way  of  signal-light. 

By  the  way,  speaking  of  Maude  Clare,  re 
minds  me:  Be  sure  that  you  are  a  perfect 
lady,  no  matter  what  anybody  else  may  ever 

prove  to  be. 

As  ever,  lovingly, 

MOTHER. 

When  Gypsy  had  read  this  for  the  third 
time,  she  threw  her  Virgil  and  Lexicon  with 
such  a  bang  upon  the  floor  that  quiet  Jane 
jumped  half-way  across  the  room. 

"Why,  Gypsy!  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Gypsy,  with  flushed  cheek, 
"only  I  have  something  to  say  to  mother; 
that 's  all" 

loq 


She  sat  straight  down  and  wrote :  — 

"Why,  mother!  Why,  I  never!  Why, 
how  could  you?  You  just  went  and  hinted 
that  Maude  Clare  isn't  a  perfect  lady  —  you 
know  you  did !  Why,  she  's  so  par&Vular,  and 
so  proud,  you've  no  idea;  and  last  summer 
one  day  a  gentleman  kissed  her  and  she  fired 
up  and  told  him  he  did  n't  dare  to  do  that 
again,  and  he  did  it  again,  and  by-and-by  she 
got  up  and  walked  right  out  of  the  room.  She 
never  lets  people  take  liberties  with  her,  and 
she  's  so  polite,  too,  and  I  think  you  're  very 
much  mistaken,  and  I  don't  see  what  made  you 
say  such  a  thing,  for  you  see  you  don't  know 
hardly  anything  about  her;  only  what  I  Ve 
told  you;  and  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help 
knowing  best,  mother,  I  'm  sure." 

Had  Gypsy  seen  the  smile  with  which  her 
mother  read  this,  she  would  have  been  more 
perplexed  than  ever. 

One  afternoon  when  study-hours  were  over, 
Maude  Clare  came  upstairs  to  ask  Gypsy  to 
go  to  walk  with  her. 


"  Why  —  you  see,"  said  Gypsy,  hesitating, 
with  a  glance  at  the  window,  where  her  room 
mate  was  finishing  her  French  exercise,  "  I 
promised  Jane  I  'd  go  with  her.  I  don't  go 
with  her  very  often,  you  know.  It's  too 
bad,  though;  I'd  a  great  deal  rather  go  with 
you." 

This  was  in  a  whisper,  but  whispers  are  al 
ways  more  easily  audible  than  people  suppose; 
Jane  may  have  heard  it,  for  she  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  her  Fasquelle  quickly,  with  a  sudden 
flush  upon  her  cheek. 

"Oh,  Jane  doesn't  care;  do  you,  Jane?" 
said  Maude,  aloud. 

"  Care  about  what?  " 

"  Let  Gypsy  go  to  walk  with  me,  —  there  's 
a  good  girl.  I  have  a  particular  reason  for 
wanting  her  to-day." 

"A  particular  reason?"  questioned  Gypsy, 
curious  and  undecided. 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  spoke  up  Jane,  hur 
riedly.  "  I  don't  care  —  that  is,  I  mean  I 
would  rather  have  you  do  as  you  feel  about  it 


I  can  go  with  Phoebe  Hand  just  as  well,  you 
know." 

"  It's  a  very  particular  reason,"  urged  Maude. 

Gypsy,  still  looking  undecided,  began  to  put 
on  her  things,  saying  something  to  Jane  mean 
while  about  being  sorry,  and  hating  to  break 
an  engagement,  and  —  she  did  n't  know  — 
but  — 

Jane  put  an  end  to  the  matter  by  running 
down  to  find  Phoebe ;  and  Gypsy  and  Maude 
Clare  went  slowly  down  after  her,  and  out  of 
the  house.  Maude  was  chattering  about  the 
fit  of  her  gloves.  Gypsy  did  not  listen. 

"  It  is  good,"  she  interrupted  suddenly. 

"What  —the  colour?" 

"  No ;  I  was  n't  thinking  about  gloves.  I 
mean  Jane  Bruce." 

"  Well,  what  about  Jane  Bruce?  " 

Maude  spoke  a  little  sharply,  and  pulled  up 
her  gloves  with  a  jerk.  As  long  as  Miss 
Maude  Clare  was  the  subject  of  remark,  this 
young  lady  evinced  unusual  conversational  abil 
ities.  Strike  off  upon  another  topic,  and  one 


could  but  notice  —  every  one,  that  fs,  but 
Gypsy  —  how  suddenly  her  interest  flagged, 
and  her  brilliancy  grew  dim. 

"  Why,  I  was  thinking  how  good  it  is  in  her 
to  go  so  much  with  that  Phoebe  Hand,"  pur 
sued  Gypsy,  too  busy  with  the  thought  to  ob 
serve  how  Maude  had  received  it.  "  She  walks 
with  her,  and  she  rides  with  her,  and  she  goes 
in  to  see  her ;  I  don't  see  how  she  can,  I  'm  sure, 
with  Miss  Ayre  looking  round." 

"  Yes,"  said  uninterested  Maude.  "  Yes,  I 
suppose  so.  Look  at  Jack  Delancey  showing 
off  those  everlasting  hands  of  hers  across  the 
road  there  !  She  wears  kid  gloves  all  the  time 
just  because  they  make  them  look  smaller.  I 
would  n't  be  seen  in  kids  every  day,  such  freez 
ing  weather  as  this,  in  such  a  little  country 
place  as  Snapberry." 

"  I  think  your  hands  look  prettier  in  Cash 
mere  than  they  do  in  kid,"  observed  Gypsy. 
"  Such  little  soft  brown  stuff  curves  and  fits  so 
easily;  besides,  it  makes  the  fingers  look 
shorter." 

03 


"  Yes,"  said  Maude  Clare ;  "  I  don't  know 
but  it  does.  It  is  n't  everybody  that  can  bear 
Cashmere  without  making  one's  hands  look  like 
a  cook's.  I  know  Jack  could  n't,  because  hers 
are  so  fat.  I  declare !  See  her  flirting  her 
handkerchief  at  those  boys.  How  she  does 
act !  See,  she  has  on  her  best  bonnet  too,  and 
I  never  saw  anybody  sail  about  the  streets  as 
she  does,  since  she  had  that  trailing  green  pop 
lin.  I  'd  bet  you  a  cookie,  as  Jo  Courtis 
says,  that  Jack  Delancey  considers  herself  Num 
ber  i  in  this  school,  —  in  fact,  I  have  it  on  very 
good  authority,  that  she  said  so  herself,  to 
Mary  Blunt" 

"  Number  I  !  "  repeated  Gypsy,  looking  puz 
zled.  "  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  Number  I  ?  " 

"'Why  I  mean  just  Number  I  !  I  can't  put  it 
any  plainer ;  if  you  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"  Why,  I  'm  sure  she  does  n't  profess  to  be 
the  best  scholar,"  said  Gypsy,  considering, 
"  nor  the  best  behaved ;  and  she  is  n't  a  bit  of  a 
favourite  among  the  girls,  and  — ' 

"  You  little  simpleton !  "  interrupted  Maude 


Clare,  with  her  patronising  laugh.  "  Of  course 
I  don't  mean  anything  like  that.  If  you  must 
have  a  translation,  Number  I  means  the  most 
stylish,  the  most  distingue,  —  the — I  suppose 
—  having  the  most  of  an  air  to  your  things, 
and  plenty  of  money,  you  know,  and  —  why,  all 
that." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Gypsy.  She  looked  down  the 
street  as  she  spoke,  where  Jacqueline's  striking 
green  poplin  dragged  its  slow  length  along,  and 
Jacqueline's  feathers  and  ribbons  were  blowing 
about  in  the  wind.  Then  turning  around,  her 
eye  fell  on  Phoebe,  limping  down  the  hill,  and 
leaning  heavily  on  Jane  Bruce's  arm. 

"  You  have  n't  shown  yourself  much  inter 
ested  in  what  I  said  before  we  came  out,"  said 
Maude  Clare,  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  after  a 
silence  had  fallen  between  the  two. 

Gypsy  started  from  her  musing,  and  begged 
pardon. 

"  Your  particular  reason  for  wanting  me  to 
day  ?  Oh  yes,  I  am  interested ;  I  want  to  know, 
Of  course  I  want  to  know.  What  was  it?" 

115 


"I  have  something  to  show  you,  ma 
and  that's  why  — " 

"Something  to  — " 

"  That  is  to  say,  somebody." 

"Maude  Clare,  what  is  the  matter?  What's 
up?  What  are  you  blushing  about?  " 

Maude  Clare  indignantly  denied  that  she 
was  blushing,  and  somewhat  unintelligibly  re 
quested  Gypsy  not  to  say  anything,  but  to  wait 
and  see.  Gypsy,  not  having  anything  to  say, 
said  nothing,  but  waited  and  saw. 

Presently  Maude  Clare  turned  from  the  main 
street  into  a  quiet  by-road,  bounded  with 
stone  walls  and  apple-trees,  and  comparatively 
secure  from  a  crowd  of  passers. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  turning  up  Love  Lane 
for?"  asked  Gypsy.  "It  isn't  half  so  good 
walking;  the  ground  is  all  frozen  up  in  little 
jolts,  Maude." 

"You'll  see,"  said  Maude,  mysteriously. 
At  the  same  time  she  was  looking  very  intently 
up  the  road. 

"  There  1 "  she  said  at  last,  and  pulled  her 


spotted  lace  veil  —  it  was  very  becoming— 
down  suddenly  over  her  face. 

"There  what?" 

"There  he  is." 

Gypsy  observed  then,  far  up  the  road,  the 
figure  of  a  young  man  or  boy  approaching 
them.  He  was  not  very  tall,  but  of  rather  a 
graceful  form,  and  even  at  that  distance  she 
could  see  that  he  was  fresh  from  the  hands  of  a 
city  tailor. 

"Who  is  he,  Maude?" 

"  Hush-sh  !     It 's  Ben  Sizer." 

Gypsy  hushed ;  thinking  that  it  was  some 
old  acquaintance  of  whom  Maude  Clare  had 
never  chanced  to  speak  to  her.  She  was  much 
surprised  to  see  that,  as  the  young  fellow 
neared  them,  Maude  did  not  bow  to  him.  She 
glanced  up  with  a  smile  —  one  of  those  brilliant 
smiles,  such  as  had  attracted  Gypsy  in  the  car 
on  the  evening  that  they  came  to  the  Golden 
Crescent  —  and  then  looked  demurely  on  the 
g*^tmd,  her  eyelashes  on  her  cheeks,  and  hef 
hands  in  her  sacque-pockets. 


The  stranger  had  scarcely  passed  her,  how 
ever,  when  he  stopped,  and,  raising  his  hat,  said 
something  in  an  undertone  that  Gypsy  did  not 
hear  ;  at  the  same  time  handing  her  his  card. 
If  Gypsy  had  been  surprised  before,  she  was 
struck  dumb  when  Maude  Clare,  instead  of 
repelling  the  impertinence  in  a  dignified  way, 
took  the  card  with  a  blush  and  a  smile,  drew 
her  own  from  her  pocket,  handed  it  to  him, 
and  with  a  familiar  "  Good-afternoon  "  walked 
slowly  on. 

Gypsy  waited  till  they  were  out  of  hearing, 
then  expressed  her  opinion  in  this  fashion:  — 

"  Why,  Maude  —  Clare  —  Smith  !  " 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?  You  needn't 
tuck  on  my  last  name  if  you  are  mystified. 
Anybody  would  think  you  had  been  taking 
lessons  of  Jack  Delancey." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  !  " 

"Know  what?" 

"  Did  n't  you  —  why,  have  n't  you  ever  seen 
that  boy  before  to-day?" 

Maude  laughed  noisily. 


1  18 


" Occasionally  —  yes,   dear;    about  a  dozen 

times,  perhaps." 

"Why,  where?" 

"  Oh,  church,  and  lectures,  and  down  town, 
ftnd  so  on.  You  've  seen  him  too,  only  you 
had  n't  the  sense  to  remember  it.  Did  you 
ever  see  such  eyes?  And  such  a  love  of  a 
moustache !  " 

"  Why,  then,  you  —  must  be  acquainted  with 
him,  I  suppose?" 

"  Depends  upon  what  you  call  acquaintance. 
I  never  spoke  to  him  till  to-day.  It  was  real 
bright  in  him  to  think  of  introducing  himself 
that  way,  was  n't  it?  I  never  should  have  got 
an  introduction  any  other  way.  Nobody  knows 
him  in  school  but  Jack  Delancey,  and  she  'd 
sooner  cut  her  head  off  than  have  him  fall 
into  my  hands.  It  will  be  a  joke  to  hear  what 
My  Lady  has  to  say  to  this.  It  was  so  cute." 

"  Cute !  Why,  I  thought  he  was  the  most 
impudent  fellow  I  ever  saw.  But  you  won't 
treat  him  like  anybody  else,  of  course,  and  bow 
to  him?" 


"  My  dear  little  Gypsy,  pray,  why  should  n't 
I !  Of  course  I  would  n't  without  any  intro 
duction,  like  Jack;  but  I'm  sure  he  was 
very  thoughtful  and  gentlemanly  about  it, 
and  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  cutting  him. 
I  don't  care  anything  about  it  though,  any 
way,  and  very  likely  I  shall  if  I  feel  like 
it." 

"  Oh,"  said  Gypsy,  looking  a  little  relieved ; 
"  well,  I  hope  you  won't  have  anything  more 
to  do  with  him,  anyway ;  it  is  n't  a  bit  like 
you."  But  after  this  she  was  silent  for  some 
time. 

"Have  you  ever  met  him  before  in  Love 
Lane?"  she  questioned  presently. 

"  Why,  let  me  see ;  once  or  twice,  perhaps," 
said  Maude  Clare,  evasively. 

"  But  you  know  something  about  him,  I 
suppose,  —  who  he  is,  and  all." 

"  Why,  stupid  !  he  is  Mr.  Ben  Sizer." 

"  But,  I  mean,  anything  more,  you  know." 

"  Well,  he  is  a  student  at  Harvard  College^ 
I  believe ;  so  Jack  says." 


"  Harvard !  But  it 's  term  time  at  Harvard  ; 
how  happens  he  to  be  here?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  nor  care,"  said  Maude, 
carelessly.  "  Hush  !  I  declare  !  Look 
round ! " 

Gypsy  looked,  and  saw,  to  her  surprise,  that 
Mr.  Benjamin  Sizer  was  following  them  at  a 
rapid  pace. 

"The  horrid,  impudent  old  thing!  Come, 
Maude,  let 's  hurry  home." 

Just  then,  the  most  surprising  series  of  acci 
dents  happened  to  Miss  Maude  Clare.  She 
dropped  her  glove,  and  she  was  sure  that  she 
had  lost  her  purse,  and  her  boot-lacing  came 
untied,  and  her  veil  blew  off,  and,  take  it  alto 
gether,  she  was  delayed  so  long  upon  the  side 
walk  that  Mr.  Sizer  had  picked  up  the  veil, 
had  joined  them  to  return  it,  had  fallen  into 
step  to  walk  beside  them,  and  had  been  for 
mally  introduced  to  Gypsy,  before  Gypsy  had 
fairly  recovered  from  her  amazement  and  seen 
through  the  performance. 

At  this  point,  however,  "  I  'm  going  to  walk 


on ! "  she  said,  with  bright  cheeks  and  indig 
nant  eyes. 

Maude  Clare  exclaimed:  "  Oh,  don't, 
Gypsy !  Stay  with  us,  —  it 's  only  a  little 
way." 

"  I  should  be  really  very  sorry  to  be  de 
prived  of  the  pleasure  of  your  company," 
urged  the  collegian,  with  a  very  low  bow. 

"  Can't  help  it  if  you  are !  "  said  Gypsy, 
bluntly.  "  It 's  against  the  rules,  and  I  'ra 
going  home." 

And  home  she  went  as  fast  as  her  feet  could 
carry  her. 

"  Spunky  !  I  declare !  "  she  heard  Mr. 
Sizer  observe  as  she  crossed  the  street. 

He  strolled  on  slowly  with  Maude  Clare,  — 
very  slowly;  there  were  no  teachers  upon  the 
street;  the  twilight  was  falling.  The  twilight 
had  quite  fallen  when  Maude  Clare  came  in. 
Gypsy  was  sitting  alone  in  the  dark,  with  her 
cheek  leaning  upon  her  hand,  and  her  hat  in 
her  lap;  she  had  not  taken  off  the  rest  of 
her  things,  but  seemed  to  have  dropped 


into  the  first  chair  that  she  came  to,  deep  in 
thought. 

"  Gypsy  —  this  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  are  you  sitting  here  in  this  azure 
fashion  for?" 

Maude  Clare  came  up  and  pinched  her  cheek, 
as  she  was  used  to,  to  "  find  the  dimple,"  and 
kissed  her  several  times.  Gypsy  sat  silent,  and 
did  not  return  the  caress. 

"  Gypsy,  how  cross  you  are !  What  ails 
you?" 

But  Gypsy  sat  silent  still.  If  it  had  not 
been  dark,  Maude  Clare  might  have  seen  that 
her  pretty  black  eyelashes  were  wet.  She 
was  thinking  of  what  her  mother  had  said. 
She  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Sizer.  All 
her  sense  of  delicacy  and  dignity  had  been 
jarred.  Could  a  lady  have  done  what  Maude 
had  done  that  afternoon?  She  must  answer 
her  own  question  honestly,  and  it  hurt  her  —  it 
did  hurt  a  little  —  to  decide  it  against  her 
"  precious  Maude  Clare." 

xat 


But  Maude  stood  there,  looking  very  hand 
some  and  grieved  and  injured,  and  she 
caressed  the  dimple  back  into  its  place  with 
her  pretty  soft  fingers,  and  so  they  went 
down  to  tea  together,  and  Gypsy  said  nothing 
about  it 


GOLDEN  CRESCENT,  Dec.  20. 

Y  ANGEL  OF  A  MOTHER,  —  Holi 
days,  holidays,  holidays  !  The  dar 
ling  McMunn  has  given  us  a  week,  and  I'll 
never  laugh  at  her  waterfall  again, —  if  I  can 
help  it.  I  shall  just  catch  that  blessed  Thomas, 
and  I  shall  sleep  again  in  my  own  dear  room, 
and  I  shall  climb  into  your  own  dear  arms,  and 
besides,  I  shall  have  some  rice  griddle-cakes, 
and  I  really  don't  know  whether  I  am  standing 
on  my  head  or  my  feet. 

Your  bewildered 

GYPSY. 

P.  S.     Maude   Clare    means   to  write  to  me 
every  day.    A  week  is  so  long  to  be  separated. 

•to* 


The  little  letter  hurries  on  its  way,  and  the 
days  are  hurrying  with  it.  There  is  much  sur 
prise  and  expecting  and  making  ready,  in  the 
happy  Green  Mountain  home.  There  is  impa 
tient  waiting  and  there  are  longing  eyes,  and 
there  is  a  wild  sense  of  freedom  in  the  very 
grammars  and  lexicons  at  the  Golden  Crescent 
Gypsy  falters  through  the  last  Virgil  lesson, 
corrects  the  last  French  exercise,  plunges  poor 
Chaplain  Goss  into  despair  over  her  last  equa 
tion,  by  announcing  that  x  equals  one  goose 
and  two-thirds  of  a  goose,  rushes  through  the 
last  Shakespeare  reading  and  the  last  composi 
tion,  loses  the  last  lead-pencil,  and  tips  over 
the  last  ink-bottle;  bestows  the  last  crinoline 
on  Dolly,  takes  the  last  look  at  Mrs.  McMunn's 
ivaterfall,  the  last  kiss  from  Maude  Clare's  red 
rtps,  and  before  she  knows  exactly  what  is  hap 
pening,  has  been  steamed  into  Yorkbury,  and 
rumbled  up  in  the  old  coach  to  the  old  home- 
door,  with  the  old  dear  faces  clustered  on  the 
steps. 

Ah,   such  a  pleasant   week;    such   a  short; 

M6 


dear  week !  She  grudges  every  moment  spent 
in  night  and  sleep,  and  is  sure  that  the  days 
are  not  so  long  by  several  hours  as  they  were 
when  last  she  was  at  home.  Her  mother's 
sweet,  bright  face  is  there,  to  be  watched  and 
kissed  and  patted  and  talked  to,  hours  without 
end.  Her  father's  mind  must  be  set  at  rest  as 
to  the  exact  amount  of  her  expenses,  and  the 
ventilation  of  her  room  at  the  Golden  Crescent. 
Winnie's  cat,  feeling  called  upon  to  contribute 
to  the  entertainment,  has  three  fits  regularly 
every  day;  which  furnish  Winnie  with  a  most 
fruitful  and  interesting  subject  of  conversation, 
in  season  and  out  of  season.  Patty,  with 
beaming  face,  concocts  the  most  delicious  of 
rice-cakes  and  Charlotte  Russe,  to  honour  the 
vacation,  and  in  addition  gives  astonishing 
and  practical  evidence  of  her  favour,  by  volun 
teering  to  make  Miss  Gypsy's  bed  for  her  while 
she  is  at  home,  which,  be  it  recorded,  Patty  has 
never  thought  herself  capable  of  before.  But, 
best  of  all,  is  the  short,  sweet  sight  of  Tom. 
"  So  nice,  you  know,  that  his  vacation  should 


Just  come  right  with  mine,"  Gypsy  says,  "  and 
did  you  ever  see  such  a  handsome  fellow  in  all 
your  life?"  "Besides,"  she  writes  to  Maude 
Clare,  "  he  studies  like  a  house  on  fire,  and 
behaves  like  a  deacon,  and  I  have  a  good  rea< 
son  for  being  glad  of  that.  Perhaps,"  —  she  is 
going  to  add,  —  "  perhaps  I  will  tell  you  about 
it  sometime ; "  but  hesitates,  and  leaves  the 
sentence  unfinished.  Maude  Clare  is  not  ex 
actly  the  one  to  hear  that  story.  Some  quick 
tears  spring  just  then  into  her  eyes;  for  she 
has  a  thought  of  another  than  Maude  Clare, 
whom  she  used  to  love  with  a  very  different 
love  from  that  which  she  gives  to  this  strong, 
bright,  handsome  girl,,  —  another,  ^vho  knew 
all  about  "  that  story."  As  for  the  meaning  of 
these  two  memories,  will  it  not  be  found  re 
corded  in  the  chronicles  of  "  Gypsy's  Sowing 
and  Reaping"?  or  according  to  Winnie  (who 
has,  by  chance,  heard  a  distant  report  of  that 
book),  "  Gypsy's  Sewing  and  Ripping" 

Right  into  the  happy  week  come  Christmas 
frolics  and  sweet  New  Year  hopes  and  wishes, 

Ml. 


and  last,  but  not  least,  a  present  or  two. 
Gypsy,  undoing  a  curious,  oblong  bundle  that 
she  finds  in  her  chair  at  the  breakfast-table, 
fairly  screams,  — 


"  Oh,  you  sweetest  of  women !  A  Chinchilla 
muff!  and  a  gray  silk  scarf  to  match!  And 
how  you  ever  happened  to  guess  what  Jack 
said,  and  Maude,  and  how  I  did  try  not  to 
mind  its  being  squirrel,  but  kept  wondering  if 
they  were  laughing  at  me,  you  know !  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  bought  a  complete  set, 
dear;  but  if  you  can  get  along  with  the  scarf 
for  the  present  —  " 

"  Get  along !  "  Gypsy  fairly  hushes  up  the 
words  with  her  kisses  and  delight,  and  must 
needs  sit  straight  down  and  write  Jane  Bruce 
all  about  it.  Somehow  it  does  not  come 
natural  to  tell  the  little  tale  to  Maude.  Jane 
always  is  interested  to  hear  such  things;  and 
then  Jane  was  so  brave  about  the  squirrel,  —  on 
the  whole,  the  thought  of  her  slips  most  nat 
urally  into  the  matter. 

The  week  has  lengthened  to  ten  short  days, 
and  after  the  merry-making  there  comes  a  little 
lull.  Gypsy  is  going.  Frolics  and  sleigh-rides 
and  Charlotte  Russe  and  Winnie's  kitty  and 
Tom's  college  stories  are  becoming  part  of  a 


far-away  past.  Lexicon  and  copy-books  and 
compositions  and  Miss  Ayre  are  drearily  at 
hand. 

Her  mother  has  not  had  a  chance  for  a  quiet 
talk  with  Gypsy ;  but  one  night  just  before  she 
goes,  the  chance  comes,  and  the  talk. 

"  Now  I  want  to  hear  all  about  it,  Gypsy." 

So  Gypsy,  climbing  into  her  lap,  begins  with 
her  appearance  at  Snapberry  on  the  dripping 
station-platform,  and  comes  down  through  the 
term,  and  everything  that  she  has  thought, 
said,  or  done,  she  remembers  and  repeats  to 
the  best  of  her  ability.  Her  mother,  at  the 
close,  looks  a  little  grave. 

"But  the  lessons,  Gypsy?  " 

"  Lessons  —  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot.  Yes,  we 
had  some  lessons.  I  did  n't  have  very  bad 
ones,  because  I  was  ashamed  to,  but  I  don't 
suppose  I  studied  much,  though." 

To  which  her  mother  has  a  few  things  to  say. 

One   day,  soon   after   she   was   back  at  the 
Golden  Crescent,  Maude  Clare   found   Gypsy 
studying  directly  after  tea. 
13* 


"  Why,  Gypsy  Breynton,  I  Ve  been  hunting 
the  house  over  for  you  !  Why,  this  is  n't  study- 
hours  !  Come,  the  girls  are  having  the  Lancers 
down  in  the  music-room,  and  I  want  you." 

Gypsy  laid  down  her  Roman  History. 

"  Maude  Clare,  you  're  my  evil  angel.  Now, 
what  do  you  suppose  my  mother  told  me,  the 
last  night  I  was  at  home?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  here,  give  us  your  book ! 
Now !  it 's  behind  the  bed,  and  you  '11  have  to 
come." 

"  She  told  me,"  pursued  Gypsy,  with  great 
seriousness,  — "  she  told  me  that  I  came  to 
school  to  —  think  of  it,  Maude !  —  to  study." 

"  She  did  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  actually  asked  me  how  much 
I  supposed  I  had  learned.  Why,  I  laughed 
right  out.  But  what 's  more,  I  told  her  I  would 
learn  something  this  term.  Accordingly,  I  eat 
chocolate  taffy  all  study-hour  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  well,  it 's  all  the  same ;  come,  we  can't 
get  along  without  you.  Gypsy  Breynton,  if 

you   don't  stir  pretty   quickly,    I  '11  pull  your 
13* 


hair  down ! "  Which  Maude  proceeded  to 
do,  and  Gypsy  sat,  a  perplexed-looking  little 
statue,  wrapped  about  with  a  flood  of  bright 
black  waves. 

"I  might  make  it  up  —  it's  only  five  pages 
more  —  after  Biblical." 

"  But  it 's  Society  night." 

"So  it  is  —  well,  I  will  make  time  in  the 
morning,  then.  I  can't  stand  that  music  much 
longer." 

So,  still  wrapped  in  her  pretty  hair,  she 
bounded  down  to  the  music-room,  three  stairs 
at  a  time. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  study  in  the  morn 
ing,"  said  Maude  Clare,  trying  to  keep  up  with 
her,  "  when  you  see  a  novel  I  brought  from 
home  on  purpose  for  you  to  read.  It 's  '  The 
Shadow  of  a  Life-time,'  —  most  elegant  story, 
and  so  weird,  you  Ve  no  idea." 

To  her  justice,  be  it  recorded  that  Gypsy 
did  study  in  the  morning  till  the  history  lesson 
was  learned.  When  afternoon  came,  however, 
and  she  was  sleepy,  and  the  room  was  hot,  and 


*'  The  Shadow  of  a  Life-time  "  lay,  in  tempting 
brown  binding  and  beautiful  print,  open  upon 
the  table,  she  thought  that  she  would  just  look  it 
over,  see  the  heroine's  name,  and  how  it  ended,  be« 
fore  commencing  on  those  dreary  conjugations, 

" '  Over  the  little  one's  future  all  unknown  fo 
thee,  innocent  one,  a  Shadow  hung  /'  why,  Jane, 
this  looks  interesting.  Oh,  what's  this  pic 
ture?  '  Lorina  found  by  her  Lovers'  Dear 
me  !  what  a  lot  of  'em  she  had  !  Oh,  here 's  a 
description  of  a  ball-dress.  I  think  descrip 
tions  of  ball-dresses  are  splendid.  There,  I  've 
lost  the  place.  Oh,  no  ! 

"  *  Her  head  was  unadorned,  save  by  a  single 
•iiamond,  in  a  wreath  of  artificial  roses'  Let 
me  see"  —  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  con 
jugations. 

"  Jane  dear,"  observed  Gypsy,  languidly, 
looking  up  from  the  amiable  Lorina  when 
study-hours  were  half  over,  "  I  don't  see  what 
you  are  always  studying  for." 

Silent  study-hours  were  the  rule,  and  Jane 
made  no  reply. 


"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Gypsy ;  "  well,  I  won't 
talk.  I  'm  going  to  study  when  I  get  through 
this  chapter." 

"  This  chapter  "  lasted  till  the  bell  rang  to  go 
to  walk.  Gypsy,  flushed  and  excited,  threw 
the  book  angrily  down,  but  made  no  remarks. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  to  bed?  "  asked  Jane 
that  night,  after  the  lamp  was  out.  Gypsy  was 
sitting  by  the  window  in  her  night-dress.  She 
sat  there  some  time;  and  there  the  following 
conversation  took  place. 

"  I  was  a  little  villain,  that 's  what  I  was !  I 
won't  do  it  again.  But  I  think  it 's  dreadfully 
poky  work  studying." 

"  What  did  you  come  to  the  Golden  Crescent 
for,  dear?  " 

"  Oh,  well  I  know  it ;  but  I  can't  be  an  '  ex 
emplary  scholar '  now,  like  Jane  there,  mother. 
Why,  just  think,  she  not  only  learns  her  lessons 
perfectly;  but  she — actually — reads  somebody 
else's  Roman  History  in  connection  with  our  little 
black  one,  TO  IMPROVE  HER  MIND !  " 

"  When  Jane  is  out  of  school,  she  will  know 
135 


something  to  pay  for  it.  And  some  day,  you 
will  be  sorry  that  you  have  not  been  more  like 
her,  Gypsy." 

"  My  dear,  respected  mother,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  I  don't  believe  it!  I  won't  be  a 
dunce,  but  I  can't  be  a  model." 

After  which,  she  went  to  bed.  To  do  Gypsy 
justice,  the  management  at  the  Golden  Cres 
cent  was  not  such  as  was  calculated  to  help  a 
rollicking,  frolicking,  bright  girl  —  who  could 
skim  over  a  lesson  in  ten  minutes,  make  a  fait 
recitation,  and  forget  it  within  an  hour  —  in 
the  formation  of  solid  habits  of  study.  Mrs. 
McMunn  was  just  what  she  looked  to  be,  —  an 
awkward,  good-natured,  easy-going,  and  by  no 
means  scholarly  woman.  In  fact,  she  owed  her 
position  to  the  reputation  of  a  distinguished 
brother,  rather  than  to  any  attainments  or  suit 
abilities  for  the  work  of  a  teacher  which  any 
body  had  ever  been  so  fortunate  as  to  discover 
in  her.  Miss  Ayre  was  a  severe  disciplinarian, 
and  Chaplain  Goss  a  thorough  mathematical 
instructor;  but  under-teachers  cannot  guide 
136 


the  helm.  Mrs.  McMunn  was  careless  about 
enforcing  their  rules,  and  made  herself  no  sys 
tem  of  marks,  rewards,  or  punishments,  to 
serve  as  incitement  to  the  ambitious,  or  threat 
to  the  lazy;  so  it  was  small  wonder  that 
even  Gypsy's  most  violent  efforts  to  become 
that  "  exemplary  scholar "  flagged  after  a 
day  or  two,  and  subsided  into  taffy  and 
novels. 

But  Jane's  did  not  Nor  Lou  Armstrong's. 
Nor  the  efforts  of  one  or  two  others.  Had 
Gypsy  shown  a  little  of  the  application  of  any 
one  of  them,  she  might  have  outstripped  them 
all.  She  was  simply  spending  her  school-days 
as  many  another  thoughtless,  talented  girl  is 
spending  them,  the  world  over;  neither  better 
nor  worse,  "  I  won't  be  a  dunce,  but  I  can't 
be  a  model,"  just  expressed  it. 

But  Gypsy  was  not,  as  she  used  to  say  for 
lornly  sometimes  to  her  mother,  "  just  a 
jumble  of  naughtiness,  without  any  goodness 
sprinkled  in."  Taking,  for  instance,  a  thing 
that  happened  soon  after  the  beginning  of  the 


term;   it  was  a  very  little  thing,  but  not  too 
small  to  be  without  its  uses. 

It  was  one  Sunday  noon,  just  after  church; 
several  of  the  girls  had  come  up  into  Gypsy's 
room ;  one  or  two  with  a  headache  or  "  the 
blues,"  hunting  for  Jane;  the  rest  Gypsy's 
friends.  It  chanced  that  they  were  all  busy 
for  a  few  moments  about  Jane,  who  was  ex 
plaining  the  Bible  lesson  to  them,  and  that 
Gypsy,  turning  away  to  the  table  to  hunt  for 
her  Testament,  came  upon  "  The  Shadow  of  a 
Life-time."  It  lay  open  where  she  had  left  it 
at  eleven  o'clock  Saturday  night.  The  lachry 
mose  Lorina  was  in  a  thrilling  crisis  of  her 
history ;  tangled  by  her  hair  in  a  thorn-bush,  I 
believe,  or  something  of  the  sort,  with  two 
wild  bulls,  three  robbers,  and  a  rattlesnake 
funning  after  her  —  if  rattlesnakes  may,  with 
zoological  propriety,  be  said  to  run. 

Gypsy  took  up  the  book,  thinking  that  she 

would  close  it  and  put  it  on  the  shelf;   turned 

the  leaves  a  little,  glanced  up  and  down  a  page 

or  two,  looked  at  the  next  illustration,  thought 

138 


she  would  just  see  whether  Adolphe  did  not 
come  to  the  rescue,  sat  down  and  read  for 
twenty  minutes. 

Suddenly  the  girls  heard  a  great  noise.  It 
was  "  The  Shadow  of  a  Life-time  "  flying  across 
the  room,  and  going  crash !  against  the  wall. 

"  You  old  thing  !  " 

"Why,  Gypsy  Breynton!  What  old  thing? 
The  book?" 

"  No,  not  the  book." 

"Well,  then;  what  is  to  pay?" 

"  I  Ve  been  breaking  the  Sabbath,  and  I  'm 
ashamed  of  myself,  and  that 's  what 's  to  pay !  " 
said  Gypsy,  with  hot  cheeks.  One  or  two  of 
the  girls  laughed.  Nobody  said  anything  for 
a  minute,  till  Jo  Courtis  had  recovered  from  her 
astonishment. 

"My— stars!  Why,  I  read  'Bleak  House,' 
all  last  Sunday,  and  '  The  Woman  in  White ' 
all  the  Sunday  before,  and  Harper  stories  Sun 
day  before  that,  and  —  why,  when  would  you 
do  your  reading  if  you  couldn't?" 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
139 


Courtis,"  said  Maude  Clare,  with  a  virtuous 
look  of  reproof.  "  If  I  did  such  things,  I 
would  n't  boast  of  them." 

"Miss  Smith  didn't  carry  her  Euclid  to 
church,  and  study  behind  her  muff,  all  sermon 
time,  I  suppose?  Oh,  no!"  said  Jacqueline, 
with  her  inevitable  effort  to  be  sarcastic. 

"Well,"  said  Maude  Clare,  sharply,  but  with 
brightened  colour,  "that  is  a  different  thing. 
Besides,  it  was  a  very  unusual  case ;  I  had  n't 
learned  a  solitary  proposition,  and  if  I  go  into 
recitation  in  that  trim,  Brother  Ayre  annihilates 
me." 

"  I  think  it  was  just  the  same  thing,"  pro 
nounced  Gypsy,  boldly,  "we  were  all  wrong; 
T  was  wrong,  and  Jo  was  wrong,  and  it  was 
wrong  in  you,  Maude,  and  —  there!  I  won't 
preach  a  sermon,  but  I  believe  it  is  our  busi 
ness  to  keep  the  Sabbath  holy." 

To  say  just  that,  before  a  crowded  roomful, 
before  Maude  Clare's  vexed  eyes,  required  - 
did  it  not,  girls?  —  some  courage. 


140 


HE    Character    of    Caesar." 
(Goodness !) 

"  Enthusiasm."    (Picture  me 
writing  on  Enthusiasm !) 
"  Eyes." 

"  Destruction  of  Pompeii." 
"  Advantages  of  Mathematics  and  other  dis 
ciplinary  studies."     (Oh,  Horrors!'} 
"  Sorrowing  Nature." 

"  Marius  in  the  Ruins  of  Carthage."  ( Ma- 
rius?  Marius?  Wasn't  he  a  Carthaginian 
General?) 

"  Sylvan  Scenes." 

"  Longfellow's  Psalm  of  Life." 


"  Autobiography  of  a  (what  ?  C-o-s-Cos- 
mop  —  Cos-mopo  —  Oh,  yes)  Cosmopolite." 

"  Lost  Opportunities." 

"  History  of  Judith." 

Gypsy  laid  down  the  paper,  and  she  and 
Maude  Clare  looked  at  each  other  blankly. 

"  Charming,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Enchanting !  " 

"  If  the  amiable  Ayre  had  searched  the 
dictionaries  (I  verily  believe  she  has)  for 
the  most  outrageous  and  impossible  set  of 
subjects,  she  could  n't  have  succeeded  better. 
I  think  it  is  a  shame  we  have  to  write  com 
positions,  anyway.  My  sister  went  to  school 
in  New  York,  and  she  did  n't  write  but  one  in 
two  years." 

As  Maude  Clare  had  never  yet  seen  the  sub 
ject  that  was  not  "  outrageous  and  impossible," 
and  had  never  been  known  to  write  a  composi 
tion  without  pronouncing  the  task  a  shame, 
Gypsy  was  not  as  much  interested  as  she  might 
have  been,  but  looked  over  the  paper  thought 

fully  to  choose  her  topic. 

few 


Maude  Clare  thought  that  she  would  take  the 
**  Character  of  Caesar." 

"If  you  only  knew  anything  about  him,  you 
know !  "  remarked  Gypsy,  candidly. 

"  Perhaps  I  know  more  than  you  give  me 
credit  for,  my  dear.  At  any  rate,  I  mean  to 
write  on  Caesar." 

Jane  came  in,  after  Maude  had  gone,  and 
found  Gypsy  perched  on  the  arm  of  the 
rocking-chair,  still  groaning  over  the  list  of 
subjects. 

"  If  I  could  be  absolute  monarch  of  America 
awhile,  Jane  Bruce,  I  would  decree  that  people 
should  all  stay  little  girls  till  composition  days 
were  over ;  then  you  could  write  Histories  of  a 
Pennv  and  Memorials  of  a  Jointed  Doll,  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter.  Put  on  waterfalls  and  long 
dresses,  and  they  dump  you  into  '  Enthusi 
asm  '  and  such,  and  not  a  thing  more  do  you 
know  about  them  than  you  did  in  the  jointed 
doll  days.  I  think  it  is  an  imposition.  Let 
me  see :  —  '  Advantages  of  Math  '  —  no, 
you  don't  catch  me.  '  Autobiography  of  — • 

U3 


what,  under  the  canopy,  is  a  'Cosmopolite'? 
'Eyes' — if  I  should  take  that,  Maude  would 
make  me  describe  Ben  Sizer's  eyes,  and  then 
she  would  blush  when  I  read  it,  and  I  should 
laugh.  '  Sorrowing  Nature.'  That  sounds 


prettily.  '  Sylvan  Scenes.'  '  Sorrowing  Scenes,* 
and '  Sylvan  Na '  —  ?  Oh !  Well,  I  think  I  will 
have  one  of  those." 

So,  provided  for  an  hour  to  come  with 
pencil,  paper,  and  cocoanut  cakes,  down  she 
goes,  a  little  heap,  by  the  register,  and  the 
groaning  recommences. 

"  Ugh  !  the  hateful,  horrid,  hate-fut  thing !  " 

"  Sorrowing  Nature. 

"Nature  is  of  a  very  sympathetic  turn  of 
mind,  and  "  —  Oh  dear  !  and  "  sorrows  —  and 
sorrows  over  the  griefs  of  the  sons  of  the  human 
race"  —  doesn't  she,  Jane?  "When  we  hear 
the  rain  fall,  she  is  weeping.  She  is  weeping. 
She  is "  —  I  can't  think  of  another  solitary 
word.  I  believe  I  '11  try  the  other.  There ! 

"  Sylvan  Scenes" 

Silence.  Vigorous  mastication  of  cocoanut. 
"  Sorrowing  Nature  "  blows  down  the  register. 
More  cocoanut.  Silence  prolonged. 

Ml 


"Gypsy  dear?"  ventures  Jane,  at  last. 

"Oh!  Why,  I  forgot!  Why,  where  is  it? 
If  there  is  n't  the  bell  for  walk !  Now  I  shall 
have  to  stay  in  and  begin  all  over.  The  old, 
hate  —  Would  you  mind  eating  the  rest  of 
these  cakes  for  me?" 

After  the  endurance  of  tribulations  manifold, 
and  perils  oft,  and  crumplings  many,  and 
poundings  not  a  few,  the  unfortunate  com' 
position  arrives  at  completion,  and  is  folded 
away  in  fear  and  trembling,  to  await  the  awful 
inspection  of  Miss  Ayre. 

Maude  Clare  wrote  five  pages  upon  "  The 
Character  of  Caesar  "  and  read  them  to  Gypsy. 
Gypsy  listened  meekly,  feeling  herself  utterly 
extinguished.  It  was  certainly  a  very  well 
written  composition  for  a  school-girl,  espe 
cially  for  just  such  a  school-girl  as  Maude 
Clare. 

A  few  days  after,  Gypsy  went  to  the  library 
to  hunt  up  Marius  in  the  Cyclopaedia,  and  find 
out  what  he  had  to  do  with  Carthage.  Turning 
over  the  leaves  of  C's,  her  eye  fell  upon  Caesar- 


Julius,  and  she  stopped  to  see  what  was  said 
about  him.  She  had  read  but  a  little  way 
before  a  curious  expression  came  into  her  face, 
her  eyes  opened  wide,  and  her  cheeks  grew 
very  red. 

She  finished  the  account,  lifted  the  heavy 
book  upon  her  shoulder,  and  went,  Carthage 
and  Marius  forgotten,  straight  to  Maude  Clare. 

She  placed  the  book  upon  her  lap,  and 
placed  her  finger  upon  the  article  and  held  it 
there. 

"Well?"  said  Maude  Clare,  "what  of  it?" 
But  she  changed  colour. 

"What  of  it?  Why  Maude,  that  is  just 
your  composition.  There  is  n't  a  difference  of 
twenty  words !  " 

"  Twenty  words  are  a  good  many,"  returned 
Maude,  coolly.  "  I  altered  it  wherever  I  could 
think  of  anything  else  to  say.  I  never  copy 
things  every  word,  as  Jack  does.  It  seems 
to  me  you  are  growing  wofully  fussy  over 
nothing  lately,  Gypsy." 

Gypsy  turned  round  and  walked  away. 


"  Gypsy,    ma    belle ! "     called    Maude,    " 
did  n't  mean  to  be  cross." 
But  Gypsy  went  downstairs. 

GOLDEN  CRESCENT,  SKY  PARLOUR, 
January  31. 

MOTHER  DEAR,  —  Sky  Parlour  is  my  room, 
you  know,  —  I  believe  I  never  told  you.  All 
our  rooms  have  names.  Maude  Clare's  is 
"  Robin's  Nest,"  and  the  Colchetts'  is  "  Sleepy 
Hollow," -  —  that  is  because  they 're  always  late 
to  breakfast.  The  room  Phoebe  Hand  and 
Miss  Ayre  have  is  "  Parsonage."  Poor  Made 
moiselle  has  a  funny  little  room  all  to  herself, 
and  that  is  "  Spinster." 

But  I  did  n't  mean  to  stop  to  talk  about 
this,  for  I  'm  in  a  hurry,  and  "i  want  to  tell  you 
about  those  Compos. 

You  see  I  hate  to  write  them,  and  Maude 
hates  to,  and  we  all  hate  to,  and  nobody  has 
decent  ones  but  Jane  and  Lou  Armstrong. 
Lou  writes  poetry,  and  Jane  wrote  the  most 
splendid  one  on  the  "  Destruction  of  Pom* 


peii,"  and  the  teachers  think  everything  of 
her. 

Now,  I  did  the  best  I  could,  mother,  really. 
You  know  what  a  little  goose  I  am,  don't  you? 
and  how  I  don't  know  anything;  besides,  I 
never  was  known  to  string  five  words  together 
straight  yet;  they  all  tumble  over  each  other, 
into  a  jumble.  So  I  wrote  about  "  Sorrowing 
Nature,"  and  it  blew  down  the  register,  and  then 
I  wrote  on  "  Sylvan  Scenes." 

Here  's  a  copy  if  you  want  to  read  it 

"Sylvan  Scenes. 

"  How  beautiful  is  the  face  of  Nature  in  all 
her  varying  moods  !  Especially  in  the  country. 

"  Go  forth  at  early  morn,  and  see  the  sun  ris 
ing  in  all  his  majesty.  See  the  blushing  clouds 
that  he  kisses  on  his  way.  See  the  gold  on  the 
mountains,  and  the  great  shadows  in  the  forest, 
and  the  sparkling  glittering  diamond  dew-drops 
that  are  nodding  about  on  the  clover-leaves. 
Hear  the  feathered  songsters  in  their  nests,  and 
the  brooks  warbling  over  the  stones,  &c. 


"  Go  forth  at  noon,  and  how  pleasant  to  rest 
under  the  shade,  protected  from  the  rays  of  the 
hot  sun. 

"  Go  forth  at  night,  when  the  silver  moon  is 


beaming,  or  the  stars  shine  coldly  down  upon 
the  earth.  Does  not  everything  whisper  of  the 
wisdom  of  its  Creator,  and  —  " 

There  was  some  more,  but  I  did  n't  finish 
this  copy,  and  I  Ve  forgotten  it.  I  wish  they 
would  n't  give  us  subjects.  One  time  I  chose 
my  own,  and  I  wrote  on  "  My  Cat,"  and  de 
scribed  Winnie's,  and  Miss  Ayre  said  it  was 
very  —  something  —  sprightly,  I  believe.  Then 
another  time  I  wrote  on  "  Blunders,"  and  Mrs. 
McMunn  laughed  till  she  cried. 

But  you  see  I  did  n't  know  anything  about 
those  old  historical  subjects,  nor  enthusiasm, 
nor  any  of  the  rest,  so  I  did  the  best  I  could 
with  "  Sylvan  Scenes."  I  meant  to  make  it 
sound  like  pictures,  somehow,  but  it  would  n't. 

So  Compo  day  came,  and  we  all  had  to  read, 
and  mine  would  have  been  as  good  as  almost 
any  except  Jane's  and  Lou's,  if  it  had  n't  been 
for  something  that  two  or  three  of  the  girls  did, 
that  I  would  n't  have  done  for  the  world.  They 
copied.  That's  what  they  did.  Everybody 
expected  it  of  Jack  —  she  always  does,  and 


Miss  Ayre  knows  it  But  there  was  anothei 
girl  —  I  sha'n't  tell  you  her  name  —  and  she 
copied,  all  but  a  few  words,  from  the  Cyclo 
paedia.  It  was  about  Caesar,  and  it  sounded  so 
grand,  and  we  sat  close  together,  and  it  made 
mine  sound  so  horrid,  and  there  was  such  a 
difference. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  —  Miss  Ayre  compli 
mented  her  like  everything,  and  then  said  she 
thought  there  was  room  for  improvement  in 
Miss  Breynton,  and  I  felt  so  ashamed,  and  the 
other  girl  did  n't  say  anything.  I  know  she 
did  n't  mean  to  make  me  feel  badly,  and  I  don't 
think  she  meant  to  do  wrong,  for  I  have  heard 
her  say  she  never  means  to  do  wrong;  but  she 
ought  not  to  have  done  it,  I  suppose. 

At  any  rate,  I  'm  glad  I  did  n't  copy  "  Sylvan 
Scenes."  And  I  couldn't  copy,  mother,  if  I 
never  wrote  a  decent  composition  to  the  end  of 
my  days,  and  if  Miss  Ayre  blames  me,  I  can't 
help  it. 

If  I  were  a  girl  in  a  story-book,  I  suppose 
Miss  Ayre  would  find  out  about  that  other  girl 


and  Csesar,  and  then  she  would  praise  me  up, 
and  we  should  have  a  great  time. 

But  she  does  n't  do  any  such  thing.  I  wish  I 
lived  in  a  story-book.  It  would  be  nice. 

Once  I  read  about  a  girl  who  wrote  a  "  glow 
ing  composition  "  on  the  "  Future,"  and  it  took 
a  prize.  Do  you  suppose  I  could  write  a 
glowing  composition  on  the  Future? 

Love  to  Father  and  Winnie. 

Your  everlasting  GYPSY. 

There  was  a  postscript  added  and  erased. 
It  is  given  for  the  benefit  of  the  curious  :  — 

Maude  Clare  is  so  pretty.  I  do  like  to  watch 
her.  I  wish  she  would  n't  sit  with  her  window 
open  so  much ;  I  am  afraid  she  will  take  cold. 
Poor  Miss  Holly  has  to  sit  in  her  furs,  and 
cough.  She  says  that  Maude  sits  there  to  see 
Ben  Sizer  go  by,  but  Maude  says  she  likes 
the  air.  I  wish  there  were  n't  any  boys  ia 
Snapberry. 


153 


THINK  it  is  about  time  to  say  what 
perhaps  I  ought  to  have  said  in  a 
proper  little  preface,  or  introduction, 
or  dedication,  that  if  you  took  up  this  book, 
girls,  expecting  to  find  it  a  miniature  novel,  of 
thickly  woven  plot  and  heroine  extraordinary, 
of  all  exciting  incidents  and  contretemps,  such 
as  seldom  happen  at  school,  except  in  story 
books,  you  will  certainly  be  disappointed. 

It  is  simply  my  business  to  describe  Gypsy's 
school-days  at  the  Golden  Crescent,  just  as  they 
happened;  and  Gypsy's  school-days,  I  fancy, 
were  very  much  like  the  school-days  of  other 

girls.     Nobody  stole  a  gold-pencil  and  slipped 

15* 


it  into  her  pocket ;  or  a  ten-dollar  bill,  and  put 
it  into  her  trunk.  Nobody  burnt  her  prize 
composition  the  night  before  it  was  to  be  read. 
Most  of  the  girls  were  ladies,  and,  in  general, 
behaved  like  such.  The  Mondays  and  Tues 
days,  the  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  followed 
each  other  quietly,  with  just  such  amount  of 
study  and  headache,  of  "  blues  "  and  homesick 
ness,  of  fun  and  frolic,  of  little  ambitions  and 
rivalries,  of  making  and  breaking  friendships, 
as  Mondays  and  Tuesdays,  Saturdays  and  Sun 
days  are  apt  to  bring.  Of  such  flashes  of  extra 
excitement  as  occurred  now  and  then,  it  shall 
be  faithfully  told  you. 

None  of  Gypsy's  schoolmates  chanced  to  be 
entirely  bad  or  entirely  good.  If  Maude  Clare 
was  selfish  and  unladylike,  she  was  affectionate 
and  of  gentle  manners.  '] 

If  Jane  was  self-forgetful  and  industrious,  she 
was  reserved  and  did  not  easily  make  friends. 
Poor  little  shallow  Jack,  I  think,  was  almost  as 
much  to  be  pitied  as  blamed.  Lou  Armstrong 
was  a  scholar,  but  she  would  break  rules. 


Ab  uno  disce  omnes.  Gypsy  herself  was  very 
much,  as  she  used  to  say,  "  Never  one  thing  for 
five  minutes."  She  was  into  mischief,  out  of  it, 
in  again,  a  dozen  times  a  week.  If  there  was 
any  golden  lesson  that  the  year  brought  her, — 
and  I  think  there  was,  —  one  could  scarcely 
catch  sight  of  its  broken  fragments  day  by  day. 
She  seemed  to  be  living,  as  so  many  girls  seem 
to  live,  like  a  leaf  upon  a  breeze;  but  the  wind 
bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  who  can  tell 
whither  it  will  go? 

So  I  give  you  her  story  as  she  gave  it  to  me, 
• — the  "scrapes"  and  the  penitence,  the  learn- 
mg  and  unlearning,  a  word  here,  a  glimpse  of 
character  there,  a  bit  of  fun,  a  sorry  thought,  a 
dream,  a  rude  deceiving,  a  self-acquaintance  — 
I  give  you  just  her  days  and  nights,  her  terms 
and  vacations,  as  they  marked  her  memory 
and  moulded  her  life. 

One  day  Gypsy  went  up  to  desolate  "  Spin 
ster,"  to  ask  Mademoiselle  the  meaning  of  a  sen 
tence  in  the  Telemaque  lesson.  Mademoiselle 
was  sitting  alone  in  the  dark  and  cold,  crying. 


"  How  funny !  "  said  Gypsy  to  herself,  and 
forgot  it  by  the  time  that  she  was  downstairs. 
Not  long  after,  she  was  in  the  music-room 
practising  alone,  when  Mademoiselle  came  in. 

"  Oh,  Mees  Gypsy  —  pardonnez  !  I  leave  the 
dictionnaire  in  here." 

"  Come  in,  oh,  come  in,"  said  Gypsy,  care 
lessly,  running  over  "  Don  Giovanni "  as  she 
spoke.  "You  can  stay  if  you  want  to;  you 
don't  disturb  me." 

The  piano  stool  stood  just  between  two  win 
dows,  in  a  corner,  and  Gypsy,  as  she  bent  for 
ward  a  little  to  read  her  notes,  her  lips  parted 
and  smiling,  and  her  pretty  head  nodding  time 
unconsciously,  was  all  framed  in  by  the  late 
western  light.  Her  face,  especially,  was 
touched  out  brightly. 

Mademoiselle  did  a  queer  thing.  She  forgot 
all  about  the  "  dictionnaire,"  and  stood  still  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  threw  up  her 
hands  once  in  an  odd  way  she  had,  like  some 
one  lonely  or  in  pain.  Then  coming  suddenly 
up  behind  Gypsy,  she  drew  her  face  back  into 


her  hands,  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  Before 
Gypsy  could  speak,  she  had  left  the  room. 

The  freak  of  Mademoiselle's  has  no  partic 
ular  connection  with  this  chapter,  except  that 
it  happened  about  the  same  time.  But  Gypsy 
had  afterwards  occasion  to  remember  it. 

About  the  middle  of  the  term  there  came  a 
long,  dreary,  drifting  snow-storm.  The  Golden 
Crescent  was  blocked  up  for  two  or  three  days, 
and  the  girls  were  restless  enough  before  they 
were  over.  Especially  Gypsy,  used  as  she  was 
to  long  walks  every  day  in  the  fresh  winter  air, 
was  thrown  into  much  the  condition  of  bottled 
cider.  Give  the  cork  a  little  screw,  and  beware 
of  the  results ! 

A  crowd  of  girls  assembled  in  council  at  the 
end  of  one  of  the  short,  dark  afternoons,  in  the 
garret  where  they  had  been  playing  Blind 
Man's  Buff  to  beguile  the  time. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  there  was  something  magnifi 
cent  and  funny  to  do !  "  sighed  Gypsy,  drearily. 
"  I  wish  I  could  go  out  and  swim  about 
through  those  drifts." 

158 


"  Dear  me,  I  should  be  afraid,"  said  Jacque 
line. 

"  Afraid !  "  echoed  Gypsy,  in  supreme  con 
tempt.  "What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of? 
Would  n't  it  be  fun  !  I  don't  see  why  Mrs.  M. 
won't  let  me." 

Jo  Courtis  was  looking  over  some  old  things 
in  a  corner  of  the  garret,  —  dresses  and  hoods, 


and  female  attire  of  various  sorts,  that  were 
waiting  there  for  the  rag-man  or  the  Town-Poor 
Society.  All  at  once  she  shouted. 

"Why,  Jo,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  I  Ve  thought  —  oh,  dear  me  !  I  Ve  thought 
of  the  very  way.  There 's  an  hour  yet  before 
it 's  quite  dark.  Hush !  come  here." 

Gypsy  came. 

Awhile  after,  a  negro  woman  made  her  ap 
pearance  in  the  kitchen.  She  wore  an  old 
calico  dress,  a  faded  shawl,  and  a  ragged  hood. 
She  held  in  her  hand  an  old  spotted  lace  veil. 
Dolly  jumped  and  screamed. 

"  Hush — sh  !  "  said  the  negro,  choking  down 
a  laugh,  and,  coming  up,  she  whispered  some 
thing  in  her  ear. 

"  Oh,  the  good  Land !  Oil,  good  gracious ! 
You  '11  be  me  death  of  laughing  some  fine  day. 
Oh,  Miss  Gyp  —  " 

"  Hush !  Will  you  do  it?  It 's  a  real  pretty 
veil,  —  see ;  and  so  becoming.  You  shall  have 
it  the  moment  I  come  back,  if  you  let  me  in 
Eke  a  good  girl,  and  keep  still.  If  anybody 


should  be  in  the  kitchen,  why,  I  '11  just  make 
you  a  call.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Dolly  considered,  and  nodded.  She  opened 
the  door  softly,  and  the  negress  went  out  into 
the  snow.  She  made  her  way  unobserved  into 
the  street,  went  up  a  little  way,  crossed  over, 
came  back,  rang  the  front  door-bell,  and  asked 
for  Mrs.  McMunn. 

Dolly  stuffed  her  apron  into  her  mouth,  and 
gave  a  little  gasp. 

"  Missus  McMunn,"  repeated  the  visitor, 
with  consummate  surprise  at  Dolly's  behaviour. 
"  My  good  friend,  I  ask  for  Missus  McMunn. 
Hain't  ye  neber  seen  a  nigger  'fore?  Tears 
like  you  finds  it  bery  funny." 

Dolly  composed  herself  with  a  bewildered 
look,  and  brought  Mrs.  McMunn  to  the  door. 

"  Good-afternoon,"  said  the  Principal,  in  sur 
prise  ;  "  I  am  Mrs.  McMunn.  What  can  you 
want  of  me  this  bitter  day  ?  " 

"  It 's  bery  cold  out  here,"  said  the  negro, 
shivering.  "  If  ye  '11  let  me  jes'  step  inside  de 
door,  'pears  like  I  ken  tell  ye  easier." 


161 


Mrs.  McMunn  allowed  her  to  step  in  upon 
the  hall  mat,  and  stood  regarding  her  compas 
sionately. 

"  Now  what  is  it  you  want  —  a  supper?" 

"  No,  missus." 

"  Clothes?" 

"No,  missus." 

"  What,  then,  —  money?  " 

"  I  wants,"  said  the  negro,  with  solemnity,  — 
"  I  wants  de  pattern  of  your  waterfall,  ef  ye 
please,  missus." 

A  suppressed  titter  ran  along  the  banistei  in 
the  upper  hall. 

"  Young  ladies !  "  said  the  Principal,  with 
crimson  face,  "  I  am  surprised  at  your  levity. 
I  should  not  have  supposed  that  you  would  rid 
icule  a  poor  lunatic  negro  like  this.  My  poor 
woman,  I  think  you  had  better  go,  unless  you 
will  take  some  supper." 

"  I  hearn  a  heap   'bout  dat  ar'  waterfall  ob 
yourns,"   said    the    negro,    regretfully ;    •'  folks 
say  it 's  so  peart  an'  graceful  like.     I  have  heaps 
of  trubble  wid  my  waterfall,  and  I  —  " 
•b 


But  Mrs.  McMunn  had  gently  shut  the  door 
upon  her. 

The  girls,  watching  at  the  garret  window, 
saw  her  taking  her  way  up  the  street,  through 
the  drifts. 

"  How  she  does  flounder  about !  She  has 
on  rubber  boots,  you  know.  Looks  as  if  she 
were  having  a  good  time,  does  n't  she?  What 
is  she  going  to  do  next,  I  wonder?  " 

What  she  did  was  to  call  at  several  houses 
on  the  Main  street  where  she  was  acquainted, 
asking  either  for  mistress  or  maid,  as  the  fancy 
suited  her,  begging  for  supper,  coppers,  Gari 
baldi  patterns,  gold  bracelets,  Bibles, cayenne  pep 
per,  anything  that  occurred  to  her  at  the  moment. 

"  Poor  crazy  thing !  "  said  everybody,  which 
was  precisely  what  she  meant  that  everybody 
should  say. 

Now,  there  lived  in  Snapberry  a  Mr.  Short,  a 
tobacco-grower,  and  an  agent  of  the  Colonisa 
tion  Society;  in  whose  service  he  lectured 
through  his  nose,  whenever  he  could  find  an 
audience;  and  by  his  self-denying  labour  and 
163 


missionary  spirit,  earned,  it  was  said,  exactly 
his  own  salary.  To  the  house  of  Mr.  Shorf 
the  negro  went  with  mischief  in  her  eyes.  She 
asked  for  supper,  and  a  shelter  from  the  storm. 
She  had  heard  of  his  interest  in  the  coloured 
race,  and  felt  sure  that  he  would  help  her. 

"  I  help  those  that  help  themselves,"  replied 
Mr.  Short,  who  had  been  called  away  from  a 
cigar,  and  felt  cross.  "  It 's  poor  benevolence 
to  help  wandering  beggars,  black  or  white.  If 
you  had  appreciated  your  privileges  and  gone 
to  Liberia,  where  you  belong,  in  that  last  colony 
we  sent  out  free  of  expense,  to  roam  in  their 
ancestral  forests,  you  would  n't  be  here  begging 
to-day,  I  suppose,  would  you?  " 

She  meekly  replied  that  she  supposed  not. 

"  Well,  then,  don't  come  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Short,  shutting  the  door.  "  I  Ve  done  my  duty 
by  you.  If  you  won't  go  to  a  happier  clime 
and  roam  in  your  ancestral  forests,  you  must 
take  the  consequences." 

A  little  distance  beyond  the  amiable  Mr. 
Short's  something  quite  unexpected  happened. 


Deacon  Popkins,  the  Overseer  of  the  Poor, 
was  out  toiling  through  the  drifts  with  horse  and 
sleigh  to  the  Office ;  and  Deacon  Popkins,  peer 
ing  from  under  his  fur  cap,  saw  the  wretched 
figure  of  the  negro  blown  about  by  the  wind. 

"  Hallo  !  "  shouted  he,  reining  up. 

"Hud  d'ye,  massa?"  said  the  figure,  hurry 
ing  on. 

"  Here,  stop  there !  Whar  ye  goin'  this  sort 
of  night,  that  style ?  I'm  Town  Overseer,  and 
you  jes'  tell  me  your  business  if  you  please." 

"I  —  I  don'  know,"  said  Gypsy,  unwilling  to 
manufacture  a  story  even  in  her  disguise.  "I 
thank  ye  kindly,  sir,  but  I  'm  done  used  to 
taking  care  of  myself." 

"  Worse  for  you  if  you  are,  then,"  said  Dea 
con  Popkins,  climbing  briskly  from  his  sleigh. 
"I  'm  Town  Overseer,  I  say,  and  it's  my  busi 
ness  to  pick  up  vagrants,  and  see  'em  safe  in  the 
Poor-us ;  and  as  for  findin'  you  froze  in  a  drift 
somewhars  to-morrow  morning,  it  would  be  on- 
convenient  to  all  parties ;  so,  if  you  please,  mum, 

you  may  jes'  step  in,  an'  we  '11  go  'long  now." 
165 


Here  was  a  charming  little  combination  ol 
circumstances,  verily !  Gypsy  began  to  have 
a  suspicion  that  her  fun  was  turning  into  most 
uncomfortable  earnest,  and,  moreover,  that  she 
had  been  doing  a  very  imprudent  thing.  Not 
seeing  exactly  how  to  help  herself,  and  hoping 
that  a  chance  for  escaping  without  detection 
would  occur,  she  climbed  into  the  sleigh  reluc 
tantly,  and  Deacon  Popkins  carried  her  straight 
to  the  Poor-house. 

Once  fairly  in  the  dreary  entry,  consigned 
for  the  night  as  a  "  nigger  vagrant,"  to  the  care 
of  a  vinegar-faced  matron,  with  Deacon  Pop- 
kins  rapidly  taking  his  departure,  Gypsy  felt, 
that  her  hour  had  come. 

"Deacon  Popkins?"  she  said  faintly.  He 
did  not  hear ;  he  was  already  in  the  sleigh. 

"  Deacon  Popkins  !  " 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  now?"  said  the 
Deacon,  standing  impatiently  with  the  reins  in 
his  hand. 

"I  —  I  'm  not  a  negro,  and  I  think  I  '11  go 
home  now." 

166 


The  deacon  laughed  loudly. 

"  Poor  crazy  critter,  you !  Not  a  nigger ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha  ! "  and  he  was  driving  off.  Gypsy 
broke  away  from  the  detaining  hands  of  the 
sour  matron,  flew  down  the  steps,  and  out  into 
the  snow  after  him. 

"  Deacon  Popkins,  I  really  can't  stay  in  a 
Poor-house  all  night,  and  I  'm  not  any  more  of 
a  negro  now  than  you  are." 

"  Waal,  mum,  if  you  ain't  a  nigger,  you  're 
the  blackest  white  gal  ever  /  see;  that's  all 
G'lang,  Billy!" 

"  Shake  hands  and  see ! "  cried  Gypsy  in 
despair,  not  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
She  held  out  her  corked  hand  all  wet  with 
snow,  and  the  deacon  drew  off  his  mitten  and 
shook  it  violently.  It  would  have  been  difficult, 
after  this  proceeding,  to  say  which  hand  was 
the  blacker. 

"I  —  vum !  "  said  the  deacon,  slowly. 

"  Told  you  so !  "  cried  Gypsy,  determined  to 
make  sure  of  the  matter.     "  See  here  !  "     Up 
wer»*,  a   handful  of  snow   upon   her  forehead, 
|H 


over  her  cheeks,  across  her  chin,  down  her 
neck.  The  effect  was  absolutely  indescribable. 

"  There,  now !  I  'm  nothing  but  Gypsy 
Breynton  blacked  up.  Don't  you  see?" 

She  turned  her  face,  all  streaks  of  white,  and 
rivers  of  black,  full  upon  him,  and  the  Town 
Overseer  sat  back  in  his  sleigh  and  laughed  till 
-the  matron  thought  that  he  had  a  stroke  of 
apoplexy,  and  came  running  out  with  a  pitcher 
of  half-frozen  water,  which  she  poured  all  over 
him. 

Gypsy  found  her  way  back  to  the  Crescent 
safely,  and  Dolly  let  her  in  at  the  back  door 
just  as  the  tea-bell  rang. 

But  the  next  day  the  whole  town  had  the 
story,  and  in  due  time  it  came  to  Mrs.  Mc- 
Munn. 

She  could  not  keep  sober  long  enough  to 
give  Gypsy  the  scolding  that  she  richly  de 
served,  but  Miss  Ayre  kindly  made  up  the 
deficiency. 


168 


ANE   BRUCE  is  developing." 

Mary  Blunt  said  this,  standing  with 
her   poplin   skirt    half   folded    over 
her  arm. 
"  Developing?  " 

"  Yes,  all  round.  (I  think  she  mended  this 
trimming  for  me  really  very  well,  didn't  she?) 
She  always  was  one  of  your  goodish  kind,  and 
helped  you  shell  popped-corn,  and  was  sorry 
when  you  were  sick,  and  would  n't  tickle  you  at 
devotions,  and  all  that ;  but  don't  you  see  how 
she's  spruced  up  and  bloomed  out  lately? 
She  rushes  round  and  laughs,  and  gets  ac 
quainted  like  anybody  else ;  and  she  is  actually 
witty  when  she  sets  about  it.  Besides,  her 

dresses  did  n't  use  to  fit*   and  now  she  really 
160 


takes  pains  to  come  out  in  decent  "style  like 
other  girls  —  not  exactly  d  la  Paris,  to  be  sure ; 
Jane  doesn't  go  into  that  sort  of  thing;  but  it 
is  an  improvement,  —  an  improvement.  I  must 
say,  if  you  're  going  to  have  good  people,  I  like 
that  kind.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  girl  spend  a 
hundred  dollars  on  lace  trimming,  and  then  go 
and  pray  in  it  at  a  missionary  meeting.  Not 
but  that  I  had  rather  have  the  velvet,  but 
then  —  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gypsy.  "  Yes,  Jane  is  a  nice 
girl.  I  don't  see  as  much  of  her,  though,  if  she 
is  my  room-mate,  as  I  do  of  ever  so  many 
others.  I  don't  know  why.  I  'm  almost  always 
with  Maude.  You  see  she  is  nt  half  as  pretty, 
and  stylish,  and  graceful,  and  sweet,  and  loving, 
as  Maude  Clare.  But  then,"  with  a  little  sigh, 
"  I  don't  suppose  Maude  is  good." 

"  Not  exactly,  —  no,"  said  Mary,  with  a  short 
laugh. 

"Now,  Jane,  for  instance,  wouldn't  laugh," 
pursued  Gypsy,  glad  to  change  the  subject,  "  at 
that  little  performance  the  other  morning." 


170 


"Oh,  it  was  you,  was  it?  1  suspected  as 
much." 

"  Yes ;  don't  you  tell,  though.  I  went,"  — 
Gypsy's  eyes  began  to  twinkle  at  the  memory, 

—  "I  went  into  the  music-room  early  to  prac 
tise,  and  I   was  tired  of  Tarn  O'Shanter,  and 
something  put  it  into  my  head,  I  'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  —  and  I  did  n't  mean  to  do  anything 
bad  —  but  I  thought  how  funny  to  write  it  and 
pin  it  up  on   the    mantelpiece  before   they  all 
came  in  to  prayers.     Then,  you  know,  it  hap 
pened  that  they  two  came  in  together  so  nicely 

—  Mrs.  McMunn  was  sick,  and    Miss  A.  took 
her   place ;    and   they   marched  in  arm-in  arm, 
and  saw  it  in  the  great  letters  —  Oh  dear ! 

"  New  and  interesting  Chemical  Experiments! 
Union  of  Air  and  Gas!  Fearful  Explosion* 
looked  for. 

"  The  chaplain  turned  as  red  as  a  beet. 
Don't  you  want  some  flag- root?" 

"  Thank  you.  I  know  it,  and  Miss  Ayre  wa3 
just  as  white  and  angry,  all  except  her  chin; 
that  is  always  red." 


•'  They  do  really  say  they  are  engaged,  any 
way;  Jack  Delancey  found  her  sitting  in  his 
lap  in  the  front  parlour  —  she  says.  Poor  Mr, 
Goss!  He  can't  get  over  it;  and  he  goes 
about  so  meekly,  and  blushes  every  time  he 
sees  a  girl.  Altogether,  he  is  the  most  sub 
limely  uncomfortable  mortal  I  ever  looked  at. 
Peanuts?  Why!  why  not?" 

"  Why,  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Gypsy,  the  twink 
ling  dying  away.  "I  never  meant  anything 
but  fun.  I  should  like  to  tell  him  so.  What 
do  you  suppose  Jane  said  about  it,  though?" 

"  Oh !  that  you  had  broken  the  Ten  Com 
mandments,  perhaps." 

"  No.  She  just  said  she  should  n't  think  it 
would  pay." 

"Just  like  Jane.     Have  a  cream-cake?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  If  you  will  let  me  have 
your  little  hammer— you  said  I  might? — I'll 
go  back  now  and  fix  my  trunk.  I  sha'n't  get 
packed  till  midnight  at  this  rate,  and  neithef 
will  you,  if  you  don't  stop  eating." 

She  stopped  in  the  doorway,  thinking. 


"  I  wonder  if  It  did  pay.  I  wonder  if  it  ever 
pays." 

Mary  was  too  much  engaged  in  emptying 
her  pockets  of  cooky  crumbs  to  make  answer; 
so  Gypsy  went  away  to  her  own  room. 

The  end  of  the  long  winter  term  had  come, 
and  six  ecstatic  weeks  of  vacation  werfc  at 
hand. 

Gypsy  stuffed  her  stove  with  compositions, 
packed  her  trunks,  and  went  home. 

And  no  sooner  was  she  there,  as  it  seemed, 
than  it  was  time  to  turn  about  and  go  back 
again. 

Jane  Bruce  had  spent  her  vacation  in  having 
a  severe  influenza,  and  was  not  strong  enough 
to  come  back  at  the  beginning  of  the  term. 

Maude  Clare's  sister  was  going  to  be  married, 
and  Maude  was  to  stay  over  the  wedding. 

Gypsy,  left  alone,  invited  Josephine  Courtis 
to  share  her  room  with  her  till  Jane  or  Maude 
came  back. 

"  Oh,  my  good  gracious  !  "  cried  Mis*  Delan- 
cey.  "Why,  she  sha'n't!  Why,  I  wouldn't 

*73 


be  hired  to  sleep  alone  one  night,  for  any 
money  you  could  give  me.  My  sister  Belle 
always  has  to  sleep  with  me  at  home  ;  and  if 
she  is  away  visitiag,  I  make  mother  come ;  or 
else  I  have  one  of  the  servants  sleep  on  the 
couch.  Why,  I  should  die  of  fright  before 
morning ! " 

"Fright!  What  can  you  find  to  be  afraid 
of,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  robbers,  and  ghosts, 
and  spiritual  rappings,  and  fifty  things.  I  have 
an  aunt  who  saw  her  candlestick  walk  right 
out  into  the  air  off  the  mantelpiece,  one  night, 
and  how  do  I  know  but  that  I  should  see  mine 
walking,  if  I  slept  alone !  I  always  cover  my 
head  up  in  the  clothes,  anyway,  and  I  always 
make  Josephine  sleep  the  front  side;  don't  I, 
Jo?" 

"We-<?///"  said  contemptuous  Gypsy,  slowly. 
"  If  I  enjoyed  being  an  infant,  I  'd  be  an  infant, 
but  it  would  be  a  good  while  before  I  would 
boast  of  it." 

"  It  is  very  nice   to  talk,"  said  Jacqueline, 


174 


colouring,  "  but  I  should  like  to  know  what 
you  want  of  my  room-mate  if  you  're  not  afraid 
just  as  much  as  I  am." 

"  I  want  her  because  she  is  funny,  and  good 
company  to  have  round,  and  I  never  was  afraid 
to  sleep  alone,  since  I  dispensed  with  nurses ! 
If  you  won't  believe  me,  I  '11  go  and  spend  a 
night  up  garret,  for  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
have  anybody  think  I  was  afraid." 

Now,  the  garret  at  the  Golden  Crescent  was 
a  dismal  place;  dark  with  cobwebs,  frowning 
with  shadows,  ghostly  with  old  quilts  and  cast- 
off  garments ;  moreover,  the  wind  shrieked, 
with  an  extremely  unpleasant  sound,  down  the 
huge  old-fashioned  chimneys.  Therefore,  in 
credulous  Jacqueline  screamed  at  Gypsy's  pro 
posal,  and  said  that  it  made  her  cold  so  much 
as  to  think  of  it. 

Gypsy  made  herself  up  a  bed  under  the 
eaves,  and  at  nine  o'clock  that  night,  went  up, 
a  stout-faced,  white-robed  little  figure,  dragging 
a  pillow,  and  slept  there,  true  to  her  word,  till 
morning. 

is  175 


Jacqueline  went  up  herself  at  six  o'clock 
to  wake  her,  and  be  sure  that  there  was  no 
hoax  about  it. 

The  girls  rushed  to  Gypsy's  room  while  she 
was  dressing,  to  hear  about  it. 

"  How  did  you  ever  dare  to?  " 

"  Were  n't  you  awfully  scared?  " 

"  Did  n't  you  lie  awake  all  night?" 

"And  didn't  you  once  think  you  saw  a 
ghost?" 

"  Or  a  candlestick  walking?  " 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  have  done  it  for  anything !  ** 

•'  Nor  I !  " 

"  Think  of  it !  " 

"  Such  a  quantity  of  rats  and  spiders  !  Why, 
I  'm  as  afraid  of  a  mouse  as  I  can  be." 

"  Well,"  said  Jacqueline,  finishing  the  chorus, 
"  it  is  very  well  for  you  ;  you  don't  mind  thun 
der-showers,  and  you  did  n't  scream  when  we 
upset  on  that  sleigh-ride,  and  you  're  not  afraid 
of  robbers,  but  /  am  nervous.  I  am  so  timid 
—  mother  says  I  am  the  most  timid  child  she 

ever  had." 

176 


It  required  all  Gypsy's  politeness  to  keep 
out  of  her  face  and  tones  the  little  flash  of 
scorn  with  which  she  heard  this  remark. 

"Jacqueline  Delancey,  you  really  talk  as 
if  you  thought  it  were  a  pretty  thing  to  be 
'  timid  ' !  " 

And  Jacqueline  looked  very  much  as  if  she 
thought  so,  which  was  more. 

"  I  really  don't  see,"  persisted  Gypsy,  —  "I 
really  don't  see  why  a  girl  should  be  a  goose, 
because  she  is  a  girl.  Now,  if  my  brother  Tom 
were  here,  and  had  slept  up  garret,  would  you 
ask  him  if  he  was  afraid,  or  would  you  think  it 
an  insult?  " 

"  Of  course  I  should  n't  ask  him !  " 

"  Well,  then,  if  it  would  be  unmanly  in  him 
to  be  afraid  of  nothing,  I  say  it  is  unwomanly 
in  me  to  be  afraid  of  nothing,  and  what 's  more 
I  won't  be  !  Now,  where  did  I  leave  that  hair 
brush?" 

Mademoiselle,  when  she  heard  of  the  matter, 
proposed  to  sleep  with  Jacqueline,  in  order  that 
Jo  might  be  free  to  make  the  visit  to  Sky 


Parlour.  The  offer  must  have  been  quite  a  little 
sacrifice  on  the  part  of  the  French  Teacher,  for 
Miss  Delancey  was  anything  but  an  agreeable 
room-mate,  had  always  been  one  of  her  most 
troublesome  scholars,  and  had  barely  treated 
her  with  civility.  It  was  evident  that  Made 
moiselle  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Gypsy. 

So  Josephine  "  struck  tents,"  as  she  said, 
with  Gypsy,  for  the  time  in  which  her  room 
mate  should  be  away.  The  time  became  a 
week,  became  a  fortnight,  and  Jane  had  not 
come,  nor  Maude. 

Put  two  such  impulsive,  out-spoken  girls  as 
Jo  and  Gypsy  in  the  same  room,  on  equal  foot 
ing  of  privilege,  for  fourteen  days,  and  they  are 
apt  at  the  end  to  understand  each  other  about 
as  well  as  they  would  in  fourteen  years.  Had 
Maude  Clare,  instead  of  Jo,  been  subjected  to 
the  test,  Gypsy  would  not  have  been  so  long  in 
discovering  some  things  that  she  did  discover 
about  her  friend.  Josephine  was  one  of  those 
people  whose  faults  and  virtues,  equally,  make 

more  impression  on  one  the  more  one  knows 
178 


of  them :  the  faults  were  not  easily  "  put  tip 
with :  "  the  virtues  did  not  lessen  through 
familiarity. 

She  was,  unmistakably,  what  Gypsy  had  pro 
nounced  her,  —  "  good  company."  She  was 
well,  and  strong,  and  happy;  never  had  head 
aches  or  "  blues ;  "  never  was  homesick,  never 
cried  or  moped ;  she  overflowed  with  fun  and 
jest,  —  nine-tenths  of  it  girl's  pointless  chatter, 
one-tenth  genuine  wit.  Moreover,  she  had  a 
good  large  Western  heart,  that  took  in  with 
especial  fervour  the  person  with  whom  she 
happened  to  be  at  any  particular  moment.  A 
generous  room-mate  she  certainly  was;  she 
never  growled  at  making  the  bed ;  she  took  her 
turn  in  dusting  the  room;  she  would  kindly 
volunteer  to  read  magazine  stories  aloud  to 
one  while  one  was  studying  Virgil,  and  of  her 
taffy  one  had  invariably  the  lion's  share. 

But  good  company  is  not  always  the  best 
If,  the  more  Gypsy  saw  of  her,  the  more  she 
liked  her  for  her  kind  heart,  the  more  hei 

rough  nature  grated. 

179 


Jo  was  loud  of  laughter  and  noisy  of  speech , 
she  shouted  on  the  street ;  she  sung  at  the 
window  when  boys  were  going  by;  she  would 
carelessly  break  a  rule,  and  carelessly  be  im 
pertinent  to  a  teacher;  she  was  not  of  nice 
culture  in  matters  of  etiquette  or  personal 
habit ;  she  would  jest  wittily,  sometimes  blas 
phemously,  at  things  of  sacred  name. 

Now,  none  of  this  could  hurt  Gypsy.  Im 
pulsive  and  unceremonious  though  she  was, 
from  roughness,  from  open  breaches  of  the 
laws  of  courtesy  and  refinement,  nature  and 
training  led  her  to  revolt ;  and  she  believed 
with  simple  and  confiding  reverence  in  the  God 
to  whom  she  "  talked "  every  night  after  that 
other  talk  with  her  mother. 

But  there  was  one  respect  in  which  Josephine 
Courtis  did  her  positive  harm  ;  and  as  I  be 
lieve  that  there  are  few  merry,  mimicking 
girls  like  Gypsy  who  do  not  fall  at  some 
time  or  other  into  the  same  trap,  I  shall  men 
tion  it,  at  risk  of  being  accused  of  delaying, 
by  an  interminable  sermon,  that  masquerade 

Oo 


with  which  I  so  inappropriately  headed  this 
chapter. 

Jo  inclined  to  "  being  a  boy."  She  liked  to 
be  called  Jo.  She  liked  better  to  be  called! 
Courtis.  She  was  sorry  that  she  was  made  a 
woman.  She  wished  she  were  a  man.  She 
liked  to  wear  noisy  boots  and  round  turbans. 
She  affected  paper  collars  and  broad  neckties, 
and  turned  back  the  lappets  of  her  sacque. 
She  always  walked  with  her  hands  in  her 
pockets.  She  whistled  well,  and  whistled  a 
great  deal.  She  talked  slang. 

When  Gypsy  had  roomed  with  her  about  a 
week,  it  was  observed  that  she  had  cut  over  her 
hat  into  a  turban;  that  she  was  whistling  a 
good  deal ;  that  she  had  a  mannish  little  way  of 
opening  and  shutting  doors,  splashing  through 
mud-puddles,  giving  her  orders  at  the  stores. 
She  learned  to  touch  her  hat  to  the  girls  when 
she  met  them  in  the  street,  and  she  liked  to 
offer  them  her  arm  at  a  concert.  In  fact,  it 
was  the  little  hoyden  of  a  few  years  ago,  com 
ing  out  in  new  and  more  dignified  shape. 


And  as  for  slang,  she  scarcely  talked  any* 
thing  else.  Josephine  was  Courtis,  invariably. 
The  absent  Jane  was  appropriately  referred  to 
as  Bruce.  McMunn  and  the  Amiable  Ayre 
were  the  established  cognomens  of  her  teach 
ers,  while  poor  Mr.  Goss,  whose  Christian  name 
the  girls  had  discovered  on  a  card  in  one  of 
Miss  Ayre's  books,  was  designated  respectfully 
as  the  Lovely  Leonard. 

A  bad  lesson  was  a  "  flunk,"  or  a  "  fizzle," 
or  a  "  slump."  A  fine  recitation  was  a  "  rush." 
The  meetings  of  The  Evergreen  Sisters  were 
"  bums."  A  party  was  a  "  spree."  A  little 
difficulty  with  a  teacher  was  a  "  row."  A 
room-mate  was  a  "  chum."  Pleasant  girls 
were  "  good  fellows,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c.,  in  variety 
without  end. 

Now,  as  Mrs.  Breynton  knew  from  week  to 
week  just  about  what  Gypsy  was  living,  she 
very  soon  noticed  the  growth  of  this  doubtful 
accomplishment,  and  when  at  last  she  received 
a  letter  written  from  beginning  to  end  in  this 

style,  — 

m, 


*  Chum  and  I  got  into  a  regular  row  eating 
dates  in  one  of  McMunn's  classes,  and  I  think 
it 's  a  bothering  bore  to  have  to  cram  so  on 
Roman  History.  I  don't  like  to  be  scolded 
better  than  the  next  man,  and  would  n't  it  be 
jolly  if  vacation  were  here?  " 

Gypsy  had  by  the  next  mail  the  following :  — - 

MY  DEAR  DAUGHTER,  —  I  return  your 
letter,  which,  owing  to  my  long  habit  of  corre 
sponding  in  English,  I  am  unable  to  translate. 
A  vocabulary  perhaps  would  be  of  service,  if 
you  have  one  to  spare. 

If  you  have  given  up  all  intention  >f  becom 
ing  a  young  lady,  I  can  undoubtedly  find  a 
school  where  they  will  make  a  boy  of  you  to 
order;  perhaps  you  would  enjoy  yourself  at 
Andover  or  Exeter;  or  shall  it  be  Harvard  at 
once?  Please  give  me  early  notice  of  yout 
preference,  that  I  may  have  time  to  look 
about. 

There  might,  to  be  sure,  be  some  little  incoiv 
venience  to  me  in  the  arrangement,  as  you  hap 


pen  to  be  my  only  daughter,  and   three  sons 
would  be  a  good  many,  but  still  — 

Affectionately, 

MOTHER 

To  which  Gypsy  made  answer: 

"Why,  mother!  Why,  Mother  Breynton! 
Why,  I  would  n't  be  a  boy  for  anything  in  the 
world.  I  think  they  're  horrid !  " 

And  quickly  back  came  the  reply, — 

"  Well  then,  my  dear,  don't  try  to  be  a 
boy.  You  remember  the  poor  little  swan  who 
couldn't  be  a  duck?  Everybody  laughed  at 
her,  you  know. 

"  If  you  decide  to  be  a  woman,  be  a  woman. 
It  may  be  as  brave  and  strong  and  bright 
and  learned  and  independent  a  woman  as  it 
chooses,  but  it  must  not  degrade  itself  by  aping 
something  which  it  was  never  destined  to  be, 
and  never  can  be,  try  as  hard  as  it  may. 

"  Furthermore,  my  dear,  I  really  —  don't  see 
how  I  could  have  a  daughter  of  mine  grow  uji 

other  than  a  lady. 

164 


'*  A  lady  never  talks  slang.     And  these  habits 
which  you  are  forming  just  now,  will  cling  to 
you  like  burs,  long  after  school-days  are  over. 
So,  shall  this  be  the  end  of  my  refractory  duck 
ling's  career?  " 

I  believe  that  it  was. 

Lou  Armstrong  was  talking  about  a  masquer 
ade,  in  these  days.  These  masquerades  —  held 
on  holiday  evenings,  in  which  the  girls  were 
their  own  hostesses  and  cavaliers,  and  to  which 
the  lady  teachers  were  invited  as  spectators  — 
were  hereditary  amusements  at  the  Golden 
Crescent,  handed  down  from  class  to  class.  It 
should  be  observed,  however,  that  the  term 
"  masquerade  "  was  a  title  more  honorary  than 
appropriate.  Nobody  masked  but  the  homely 
girls.  It  was  not  becoming. 

"  We  can  go  into  the  Music  Room,"  said 
Lou,  "  and  —  let  me  see ;  who  will  play  for 
us?" 

"  Mr.  Schleiermacher,"  suggested  Josephine. 
"  No,  indeed  1     We  don't  want  a  man  look- 


ing  on.  I  guess  Emma  Colchett  will  play. 
Let  us  get  it  up  in  style,  and  have  a  subscrip 
tion  for  oysters  —  Dolly  will  cook  them  for  a 
pair  of  cuffs.  As  for  characters  and  dresses, 
I  Ve  thought  of  some  that  are  mag.  Queen 
Marie.  Jeanne  d'Arc.  Leicester,  and  his 

» 

Queen.     Zenobia  —  " 

"  Yes,  and  Sappho." 

"  And  King  Lear,  and  that  old  —  what 's  his 
name?  John  Burns?  who  fought  in  the  old 
white  hat  at  Gettysburg,  or  somewhere." 

"  Good !  Then  flower-girls  and  gypsies  to 
fill  up,  of  course  Josephine,  you  must  be 
Leicester,  and  I  '11  be  Bess." 

"  Lou  Armstrong,  you  know  nobody  else  can 
he  Sappho.  Put  on  ivy-leaves,  and  take  off 
your  waterfall.  Let  Mary  Blunt  be  Queen 
Bess;  her  hair  is  just  the  colour." 

"And  Gypsy?  Gypsy  Breynton?  What 
shall  she  be?" 

"  Oh,  let  me  be  a  page,  a  funny  little  page 
with  a  cap  on.  I  will  wait  on  Queen  Marie,  I 
believe." 

186 


Maude  Clare  had  been  written  to  about  the 
masquerade,  and  if  she  came  back  in  time,  she 
was  to  be  Marie.  Not  a  little  flattered  that 
she  should  be  chosen  as  the  "  Bonnie  Queen," 
Maude  thought  that  she  should  be  back  in  time. 

As  it  chanced,  she  and  Jane  came  in  the 
same  train;  and  they  came  just  after  supper, 
the  very  night  of  the  masquerade. 

Jane  looked  tired  and  pale,  when  she  came 
upstairs.  Gypsy  gave  her  one  hurried  kiss, 
and  bounded  away  to  Maude  Clare,  to  fondle 
and  pet  and  squeeze  her,  to  scream  over  her, 
and  laugh  at  her,  and  question  her,  and  pinch 
her  in  a  bewilderment  of  joy.  Never  had 
Maude  so  fascinated  her  by  her  little  graceful 
ways  and  caresses;  never  had  she  looked  so 
white  and  pink  and  pretty,  so  stylish,  or  so 
dear,  as  after  their  long  separation. 

"  And  you  have  come  just  in  time  to  be 
Queen  Marie,  my  pretty  Queen  Marie !  Made 
your  dress  at  home?  Oh,  splendid  !  Real  lace 
collar,  and  pearls  in  your  hair?  Oh,  Maude, 
you  will  be  a  queen !  " 


"  I  shall  have  a  blossom  of  a  page,  I  think, 
mignon.  See  here,  Gypsy,  who  do  you  think 
has  come  back?  Somebody." 

"  Not  that  old  —  " 

"  Yes.     Ben  Sizer." 

"  But  I  thought  he  went  back  to  College 
long  ago." 

"  So  he  did ;  but  he  is  here  again.  He  came 
on  in  the  cars  with  me." 

"  Why !  how  did  he  know  what  train  you 
were  coming  in?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dropped  him  a  line,"  said  Maude, 
carelessly. 

"  They  say,"  observed  Gypsy,  "  that  he  was 
rusticated  from  Harvard,  and  that 's  how  he 
came  here." 

"  I  don't  believe  it ! "  said  Maude,  indig 
nantly.  "  He  says  he  comes  for  his  health.  I 
suppose  he  studied  too  hard." 

The  idea  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Sizer  studying  too 
hard  so  amused  Gypsy  that  she  hurried  away 
to  (Jress,  without  venturing  on  any  further 
remarks. 


A  very  pretty  little  page  she  made,  when  that 
dressing  was  over.  She  had  compounded  a 
graceful  tunic  out  of  a  broad  crimson  silk  scarf 
and  sash,  with  trimmings  of  gilt  paper.  The 
full,  Oriental-looking  trousers,  which  came 
down  closely  about  her  ankles,  were  (but  no 
body  would  have  thought  it)  made  of  old  white 
cotton-cloth,  covered  with  figures  of  every 
colour  cut  from  silk  and  cashmere,  and  sewed 
on.  She  wore  white  kid  gloves  with  scarlet 
gauntlets,  and  carried  a  riding-whip.  Her  hair 
was  caught  up  on  top  of  her  head  out  of  sight, 
the  short  side  brushed  out  around  her  temples, 
and  over  it  was  the  jauntiest  little  blue  velvet 
cap  with  silver  tassels.  This  was  Jacqueline 
Delancey's  skating-cap;  rather  showy  for  a 
skating-cap,  but  very  suitable  for  Queen 
Marie's  page. 

As  Gypsy  was  hurrying  to  the  music-room 
in  the  little  flush  and  excitement  which  comes 
from  the  consciousness  that  one  looks  pretty 
and  that  one  is  going  to  have  a  very  good  time, 
she  passed  by  Phcebe  Hand's  room.  The  dooi 


•tood  partly  open.  Miss  Ayrc  had  gone  al» 
ready  to  the  masquerade,  and  Phoebe  sat  there 
alone. 

"  Coming,  Phcebe,  are  n't  you  ?  Why !  why 
not?" 

"  I  don't  care  to,"  said  Phoebe,  sadly ;  and 
Gypsy  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red  with  crying. 

"Why,  Phcebe,  what's  the  matter?  I  wish 
you  M  come.  I  should  think  it  would  be  horrid 
sitting  here  all  alone." 

"  I  can't  —  I  don't  want  to,"  murmured 
Phcebe,  turning  her  face  away.  "  I  can't  dance> 
you  know.  I  never  can  do  what  the  rest  do. 
Nobody  will  miss  me." 

"  Now,"  said  Gypsy  to  herself,  thinking  last, 
"  if  anybody  had  thought !  She  might  have 
been  dressed  up  into  a  very  nice  enchanted 
Princess  who  could  n't  move,  and  sat  on  the 
sofa  in  a  long  white  veil."  She  lingered  a 
moment  in  the  doorway,  sorry  and  uncomfort 
able,  wondering  if  she  ought  to  leave  the  poor 
girl  so ;  if  she  could  comfort  her  up  a  little,  or 

coax  her  to  come  in  with  the  rest  just  as  she 
190 


was.  But  all  were 
ready  and  waiting, 
and  Emma  Col- 
chett  had  begun 
to  play,  and  the  lights  flashed,  and  Queen 
Marie  was  calling  impatiently  for  her  page  — 
she  could  not  go  to  a  masquerade  without  a 

page- 

"  Fidelio  !  Fidelio  !  Gypsy !  " 


So  Gypsy  shut  Phoebe's  door  softly,  and  ran 
away,  and  there  was  a  buzz  in  the  music-room 
when  Fidelio  announced  the  Queen,  —  it  was 
really  as  loyal  a  sight  as  ever  was  seen. 

Such  a  pretty,  gay  roomful  as  it  was !  There 
was  Maude  in  her  rich,  conspicuous  costume, 
—  her  own  white  alpaca  with  its  long  trail, 
trimmed  heavily  with  lace  of  silver  paper;  over 
her  shoulders  black  velvet  edged  with  ermine 
(cotton-wool  and  ink-spots,  that  ermine),  the 
"  real  lace  "  about  her  throat  and  turned  back 
in  long  cuffs  from  her  wrists,  and  on  her  hair 
the  delicate  point  of  lace  and  pearls,  that  be 
came  her  as  it  might  have  done  the  very  face 
of  the  bonnie  Queen. 

There  was  Leicester  with  sash  and  sw,»  d 
(pasteboard),  and  his  haughty  Queen  with  her 
huge  ruff. 

Sappho  wore  her  ivy-wreath,  and  a  beautiful 
young  poet  she  made. 

Jeanne  d'Arc  bore  herself  with  a  military 
air,  and  old  John  Burns  chose  her  for  a  partner 
Sad  Zenobia  appeared  in  chains,  and  there  was 

BM 


a  funny  little  King  Lear  —  the  shortest  girX 
in  school  —  with  a  long  white  flaxen  braid. 
Jacqueline  Delancey  was  a  flower-girl,  because 
it  was  becoming;  Miss  Holly  was  a  ghost,  and 


\ 


wore  a  mask ;  and  there  was  the  usual  propor 
tion  of  gypsies  and  Indians. 

Just  after  they  had  begun  to  dance,  several 

of  the  girls  noticed  a  tall  Benedictine  friar,  who 

had  come  in  a  little  late.     The  Queen  of  Scots, 

it  was  said,  waited  to  be  confessed  by  him  bc« 

193 


fore  she  could  join  in  the  dance  with  a  cleat 
conscience.  He  now  attended  her  zealously, 
counting  his  beads. 

As  he  was  masked,  there  was  a  little  specula 
tion  at  first  as  to  his  identity,  till  some  one  sug 
gested  Jane  Bruce. 

"  Rather  tall  for  Jane,  seems  to  me." 

"  Why,  no ;  Jane  is  tall,  and  it  makes  such  a 
difference  going  without  hoops." 

"  It  must  be  Jane,"  decided  Gypsy,  "  for 
when  I  asked  her  what  she  should  be,  she  said 
she  did  not  know  certainly  that  she  should 
come,  but  if  she  did,  she  should  probably  be  a 
monk;  that  is  the  quickest  thing  to  get  up; 
you  know  there 's  that  old  black  cloth  up 
garret  that  Mrs.  M.  said  we  might  use." 

So  nobody  thought  any  more  about  the 
Benedictine  friar,  and  when,  sometime  before 
the  party  broke  up,  he  went  away,  he  was 
hardly  missed. 

"  Tired,  I  suppose,"  thought  Gypsy,  "  she 
has  gone  to  bed." 

The  girls  kept,  up   their  merry  play  till  tea 
194 


o'clock;  Dolly  brought  in  the  oysters,  Mrs. 
McMunn  thanked  them  for  the  entertainment, 
and  they  broke  up  with  a  sense  of  brilliant 
success. 

Queen  Marie  and  her  page  made  their  adieu* 
to  Emma  Colchett  together  (poor  Emma  had 
to  be  hostess  and  musician  in  one),  and  went 
upstairs.  Maude  Clare  did  look  magnificently 
that  night.  Her  cheeks  were  hot  with  ner 
vous  colour,  and  her  eyes  dry  and  bright,  with 
excitement. 

"  Maude,  you  are  —  just —  beautiful !  "  said 
her  pretty  page,  throwing  his  most  unpagelike 
arms  about  her  neck. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Maude  Clare  wea 
rily,  shrinking  a  little  from  her  caress.  "  I  am 
tired.  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed.  See,  poor 
Miss  Holly  wants  to  go  to  sleep,  and  we  should 
disturb  her  talking." 

Jane  was  in  bed  and  asleep  when  Gypsy  went 
to  her  room.  The  next  morning  the  girls  as 
sembled  to  talk  over  the  masquerade,  and  0 
strange  fact  came  out. 


Jane  was  not  the  Benedictine  friar.  Jane 
spent  the  evening  with  Phoebe  Hand. 

What  did  it  mean? 

It  was  many  days  before  Gypsy  knew  what 
every  girl  in  school  knew  before  her,  what  none 
were  quite  willing  to  tell  her,  —  what  I  believe 
none  of  the  teachers  at  the  Golden  Crescent 
know,  to  this  day. 

Jacqueline  Delancey  finally  told  her. 

"  Gypsy,  who  was  the  Benedictine  friar?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure." 

"  I  do." 

Jacqueline  whispered  something  in  her  ear. 

"  What?" 

"  Yes  —  she  let  him  in  the  side  door,  by  the 
piazza ;  and  he  went  out  the  same  way,  early, 
before  we  broke  up." 

"  But  —  but  I  don't  understand.  Will  you 
say  the  name  over?" 

Jacqueline  said  the  name  over.  I  cannot  say 
that  Jacqueline  did  not  take  a  relish  in  the  saying. 

The  Benedictine  friar  was  no  other  than  Mr 

Benjamin  Sizer. 

196 


BOUNCIN 
UP%)  *0 

^CHAPTER  XI 


UT  I  did  n't  mean  anything  but 
fun,  and  he  wanted  to  come  so 
as  to  dance  with  me,  and  when 
he  said,  '  Please/  I  could  n't  help  myself.  I 
never  meant  to  be  mean,  and  I  never  thought 
you  'd  be  so  cross  with  me,  Gypsy,"  sobbed 
repentant  Queen  Marie. 

And  how  could  Gypsy  be  cross?  Shocked 
and  angry  and  grieved  as  she  was,  wounded 
and  astonished  that  her  beautiful  Maude  should 
do  this  thing,  how  could  she  bear  it  to  see 
Ker  in  such  distress  and  mortification,  her  hand 
some  face  disfigured  with  tears,  her  bright  hair 
falling  neglected  against  her  shoulders?  (It 


made  her  look  prettier  than  ever,  but  it  never 
occurred  to  Gypsy  that  Maude  might  think  of 
that.)  At  any  rate,  she  did  n't  bear  it.  She 
had  scolded  Maude  roundly  at  first,  in  the 
frankest  of  Gypsy  fashion.  Now,  she  began  to 
wonder  if  she  had  not  been  too  severe.  She 
herself  had  been  into  mischief  too  often,  to 
throw  very  heavy  stones  at  another;  and 
though  she  was  sure  that  she  should  never 
have  done  this  thing  that  Maude  had  done,  yet, 
after  all,  was  Maude  very  much  more  to  blame 
than  herself?  And  if  Maude  could  n't  help 
it  when  he  said  "  Please !  "  (conceited  little 
monkey,  to  think  himself  so  irresistible !)  and 
was  it  not  some  excuse  when  one  liked  a  hand 
some  fellow  who  would  take  all  that  trouble 
to  have  a  dance  with  one?  and  so,  relenting 
slowly,  she  stopped  scolding,  and  drew  a  little 
nearer  to  Maude,  and  looked  at  her  sorrowfully. 
Upon  this,  Maude  Clare  cried  all  the  harder, 
and  sobbed  till  she  could  hardly  catch  her 
breath.  "  She  knew  that  Gypsy  thought  she 
was  a  hateful  old  thing,  and  she  supposed  of 


course  she  had  n't  any  pity  for  her,  and  did  n't 
know  how  hard  it  was  to  be  separated  from 
anybody  you  liked  a  whole  winter,  and  have 
him  come  back  so  suddenly  and  look  so  hand 
some.  She  did  n't  suppose  Gypsy  had  the 
charity  to  forgive  her  —  though  she  was  sorry 
of  course,  and  never  meant  to  do  so  again, 
never  —  and  the  future  looked  very  dark; 
there  were  a  great  many  Shadows  in  her  heart, 
and  this  was  another;  Gypsy  was  the  only 
friend  she  had  in  the  world  who  understood 
and  appreciated  her,  or  had  ever  been  a  con 
genial  spirit  or  had  any  sympathy,  and  now 
she  had  lost  her,  and  was  left  to  take  her  dark 
way  through  life  alone,  and  nobody  would  care, 
and  —  and  —  " 

By  this  time  Gypsy  was  crying  in  concert; 
so  they  kissed  each  other,  and  Maude  looked 
very  pretty,  and  Gypsy  said  that  she  should 
always  love  her,  but  she  did  wish  she  would  n't 
do  such  things,  and  Maude  said  that  she  never 
would  again,  and  called  her  her  Fidelio;  so 
then  they  kissed  each  other  once  more,  and 


199 


several  times  after  that,  and  then  the  bell  rang 
for  study-hours. 

The  summer  term  went  fast,  as  summer 
terms  are  apt  to  go.  It  was  too  warm  to  live 
slowly  and  seriously.  There  was  much  fun, 
much  frolic,  few  lessons,  and  less  studying  at 
the  Golden  Crescent  through  the  golden  days. 

As  for  Gypsy,  she  lived,  as  the  Gypsies  will 
live  in  summer-time,  in  a  sweet,  lazy  excite 
ment  of  walks  and  drives,  of  concerts  and  sere 
nades,  of  moonlight  nights  and  novels  and 
dreaming,  with  few  distinct  thoughts  beyond. 

One  warm  week  towards  the  end  of  'une, 
there  was  talk  of  a  grand  meeting  of  the  Ever 
green  Sisters,  which  should  be  celebrated  as  the 
last  for  this  term. 

It  would  be,  as  Lou  said,  "  too  warm  to  eat 
so  much  in  July,  and  then  there  were  examina 
tions  to  make  ready  for.  Besides,  the  mosqui 
toes  came  in  if  you  lighted  a  lamp." 

Extensive  preparations  were  made.  Jo 
Courtis  bought  a  freezer  and  made  ice-cream 
in  the  cellar,  explaining  to  Mrs.  Holt  that  the 


girls  needed  a  little  refreshment  after  study, 
hours  —  such  abominable  weather  to  have  to 
apply  one's  mind ! 

Cake,  candies,  fruits,  and  pastry  were  ordered 
from  Boston,  and  came  as  a  private  express- 
bundle  to  Mary  Blunt. 

Dolly  was  bribed  to  make  a  basketful  of  her 
inimitable  wafers ;  for  the  material  of  which,  at 
Gypsy's  suggestion,  Mrs.  Holt  was  fairly  paid. 
"  To  eat  with  the  ice-cream,  you  know,"  ex 
plained  Josephine,  "  and  I  will  send  you  down 
a  saucerful  —  if  I  don't  forget  it."  This  put 
Mrs.  Holt  into  very  good  humour,  and  she 
neglected  to  tell  Mrs.  McMunn  that  the  girls 
"would  eat  themselves  sick  and  we  should  all 
have  the  cholery,"  as  she  had  intended. 

The  trunk-closet  was  turned  into  a  manu 
factory  of  whips  and  lemonade. 

Finally,  Jack  Delancey  was  to  send  home 
for  wines.  Her  father  —  a  wealthy  distiller  — 
would  supply  her  with  whatever  she  wanted  in 
that  line. 

"  Wine  1  "   «xclaimed   Gypsy.     "  Oh,   don't/ 


I  don't  think  it 's  right.  Mother  would  n't  want 
me  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  if  you  have 
such  things.  Come,  girls,  we  don't  want  to 
turn  it  into  a  regular  boy's  class-supper,  that 
way  • —  please  don't !  " 

But  to  turn  it  into  a  boy's  class-supper  was 
precisely  what  the  girls  did  want,  and  Jacque 
line  sent  for  the  wine.  "  If  Mrs.  McMunn 
finds  it  out,"  said  Gypsy,  "  the  Evergreen 
Sisters  will  be  bounced  up  pretty  fast."  Gypsy 
felt  uncomfortable  about  it.  When  she  sat 
down  for  her  night's  talk  with  her  mother  by 
the  window,  she  left  out  all  about  the  Ever 
green  Sisters.  I  think  she  knew  that  she  ought 
to  stay  away  from  the  supper.  But  she  did 
not  stay  awa^. 

The  night  which  they  had  chosen,  was  sultry 
and  clouded.  The  teachers  went  to  bed  early. 
Even  Miss  Ayre  had  not  the  energy  to  climb 
upstairs  and  find  out  what  was  going  on,  when 
she  heard  the  noise  of  preparation  in  the  third 
story  after  study-hours. 

Maude   Clar*>  wanted  to   sleep   with   Gypsy 


that  night,  and,  strange  to  say,  Jane  objected 
She  did  not  feel  very  well,  or  something,  —  in 
deed  she  had  no  definite  reason,  —  but  preferred 
to  stay  in  her  own  room.  Jane  was  usually 
the  most  accommodating  girl  in  school. 

"  Why,  it  is  n't  a  bit  like  you,"  said  Gypsy, 
rather  crossly.  "  I  'm  sure  you  might  oblige  us 
when  Maude  wants  to  come  so  much." 

"  But  why  is  she  so  anxious  to  come  this 
particular  night?"  asked  Jane,  quietly. 

"  Because  I  am,"  snapped  Maude,  "  and 
that 's  reason  enough." 

Jane  yielded  the  point  with  reluctance,  and 
went  down  to  Miss  Holly. 

The  Evergreen  Sisters  met  promptly  in  tht 
trunk-closet,  and  for  a  while  the  supper  passed 
off  with  great  success.  Mellow  ice-cream, 
daintily  shaped  cream-cakes,  pure  white  ladies' 
cakes,  jelly-rolls  that  would  melt  in  one's 
mouth,  bananas  from  which  the  soft  skin 
was  bursting,  strawberries  wrapped  in  cool 
green  leaves,  rainbows  of  the  "  latest,''  candies 
in  pretty  painted  boxes,  and  nobody  there  to 


say  that  they  were  poison,  Dolly's  delicate 
wafers,  and  rich,  yellow  whips  beaten  to  solid 
froth,  —  it  was  not  a  bill  of  fare  to  be  despised. 

But  by  and  by  Jacqueline  brought  on  her 
wine.  Gypsy  did  not  like  it,  and  she  would 
not  have  touched  it  if  she  had,  but  there  were 
enough  who  did. 

They  drank  quite  enough,  too. 

I  am  not  proposing  to  state  that  these  young 
ladies  got  drunk,  but  it  is  a  simple  fact  that 
they  became  very  noisy.  Jo  Courtis  and 
Jacqueline  thought  it  was  "  fun ;  "  the  well-bred 
girls,  who  had  not  exactly  thought  what  it  was 
that  they  were  doing,  began  to  look  displeased, 
and  fell  silent  one  by  one.  Presently  Jo  took 
a  little  bunch  of  cigarettes  from  her  pocket, 
and,  lighting  one  with  an  ease  which  showed 
that  it  was  not  the  first  time,  offered  them,  in 
her  rough,  hospitable  way,  to  the  rest. 

Gypsy  could  stand  it  no  longer.  The  dis 
gusting  scene  had  quite  opened  her  eyes  to 
the  wrong  that  she  had  done  in  coming  to  the 
supper.  She  had  not,  to  be  sure,  expected 


anything  like  this,  but  she  should  have  guarded 
against  it.  What  would  her  mother  say?  Oh, 
what  would  she? 

She  stood  up  with  hot  cheeks,  "  Girls,  this 
is  shameful,  and  I  'm  sorry  I  ever  came,  and 
I  'm  going  right  away !  "  —  and  walked  straight 
to  the  door.  Somebody  on  the  other  sick 
opened  it  for  her. 


"  There !  We  are  bounced  up  !  "  said  Gypsy, 
in  a  tone  of  calm  despair.  And  in  walked  Mrs. 
McMunn. 

Mrs.  McMunn  was  utterly  confounded.  I 
believe  it  was  five  minutes  by  the  clock  before 
she  found  breath  to  say  a  word.  That  her 
young  ladies  —  that  any  young  ladies  —  should 
smoke  cigarettes  and  drink  champagne,  was  to 
the  poor  woman  a  revelation  so  stupendous 
that  it  stunned  every  idea  of  which  she  was 
the  possessor. 

When  at  last  she  found  words,  they  were  but 
two,  but  they  were  terrib'e. 

"  Young  LADIES  !  " 

"  Ma'am?  "  said  Josephine,  faintly. 

"  You  may  go  to  your  rooms.  We  will  dis 
cuss  this  conduct  at  another  time !  " 

They  went  to  their  rooms  with  hanging 
heads.  The  Principal  saw  them  all  out  and 
shut  the  door.  There  is  a  tradition  at  the 
Golden  Crescent  that  she  and  Mrs.  Holt  stayed 
up  and  finished  the  ice-cream,  but  you  must 
refer  to  Miss  Delancey  for  its  authenticity. 


206 


That  "  other  time  "  was  deferred  by  an  event 
for  which  both  teacher  and  scholars  were 
equally  unprepared,  and  which  threw  the  of 
fence  of  the  supper  so  much  into  the  shade 
that  none  of  the  girls  were  ever  punished  as 
they  deserved.  I  will  pause  to  say  here,  how 
ever,  lest  there  should  not  be  another  chance, 
that  when  the  day  of  reckoning  came,  penitent 
Gypsy,  without  attempting  to  excuse  herself  or 
to  shift  the  blame  upon  the  other  girls,  gave 
her  teacher  to  understand  that  she  had  had 
only  the  part  of  a  spectator  in  the  disgraceful 
scene  upon  which  Mrs.  McMunn  had  broken 
in ;  and  that  the  Principal  pardoned  her  with 
some  good  advice,  which  Gypsy  sorrowfully 
remembered. 

Maude  Clare  and  Gypsy  went  directly  to  bed 
that  night,  and  Gypsy  directly  to  sleep.  Owing 
to  her  excitement  and  weariness  and  supper, 
she  slept  heavily,  disturbed  only  by  broken 
dreams. 

When  she  had  been  asleep  some  time  —  she 
learned  afterward  that  it  was  about  eleven 


o'clock  —  she  wakened  from  a  dream  that 
robbers  were  at  the  window,  looked  about  her, 
and  started  up. 

Maude  Clare  was  not  in  the  bed.  She  was 
not  in  the  room. 

Gypsy  sprang  to  the  window.  There  was  a 
piazza  roof  running  along  the  story  below,  and 
a  wooden  trellis  for  vines,  nailed  to  the  house, 
connected  the  window  and  the  roof.  Down  the 
piazza  pillars  another  trellis  extended  to  the 
ground.  A  fearless  person,  if  not  too  heavy, 
might  climb  down  with  safety. 

The  moon  was  struggling  through  a  mass  of 
clouds,  and  in  the  faint  light  Gypsy  saw  among 
the  garden  trees  the  flutter  of  a  woman's  dress. 

Bewildered  and  trembling,  all  in  a  whirl  of 
vague  fear,  Gypsy  stood  fixed  upon  the  spot, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  fluttering  dress,  when  a 
hand  touched  her  arm.  She  started  with  a  cry 
of  relief.  Here  was  Maude,  after  all.  How 
foolish  she  had  been ! 

But  it  was  not  Maude.  Jane  Bruce  stood 
there,  her  face  as  white  as  her  nightdress. 


"  I  was  afraid  of  it,  I  was  afraid  of  it !     Oh, 
Gypsy,  that 's  Maude  Clare !  " 

Gypsy  turned  cold,  and  hot,  and  cold  again. 
"Jane,  what   shall  we   do?     What   shall  we 


"  Go  after  her,"  said  Jane,  promptly.  "  If 
we  can  get  her  back  quietly,  it  will  save  Maude 
and  the  school  so  much  disgrace;  if  not,  we 
must  call  Mrs.  McMunn.  Here !  put  on  your 
dress  and  slippers.  Give  me  my  wrapper  from 
the  closet,  and  shawl.  Come  now,  quick ! 
Down  the  back  stairs !  Oh,  don't  make  a 
noise !  " 

Gypsy  obeyed  like  a  child,  and  they  glided 
out,  with  breath  held  in,  into  the  garden.  It 
was  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  yellow  June 
lilies,  and  the  clovers  were  heavy  with  dew.  It 
was  very  dark  among  the  trees.  The  flutter 
ing  dress  had  disappeared.  A  figure  —  two 
figures  were  stealing  up  the  street. 

"  Run !  "  said  Jane.  She  and  Gypsy  began 
to  run. 

"  This  way !     Along  by  the  hedge !     Don't 


fet  them  see  till  we  have  caught  up  with 
them." 

"  Jane,"  panted  Gypsy,  as  they  ran  along, 
"  how  did  you  know? "  Jane  answered,  be 
tween  her  breaths,  — 

"  I  knew  that  Maude  was  not  to  be  trusted. 
I  did  n't  like  the  looks  of  it  —  of  her  wanting 
to  sleep  in  your  room.  I  saw  her  talking  with 
him  down  town  a  long  time  to-night.  She  has 
been  to  ride  with  him  in  the  evening  twice  this 
term." 

"  You  knew  it,  and  never  told  —  not  even 
me!" 

"I'm  not  a  tell-tale,"  said  Jane,  "but  I 
mean  to  stop  this  Poor  Maude,  poor  Maude ! 
I  am  afraid  it  is  worse  than  that." 

That  it  was  "  worse  than  that "  they  found 
when,  coming  out  at  last  into  the  open  road  in 
the  now  clear  moonlight,  they  faced  Maude 
Clare  and  young  Sizer,  standing  by  a  horse 
and  chaise. 

Maude  Clare  saw  them  and  screamed.  Mr. 
Sizer  expressed  his  sentiments  in  an  oath. 


"  Maude,"  said  Jane,  stepping  up  with  quiet 
authority,  "  come  back.  Come  back  with 
us." 

"  She  sha'n't  do  any  such  thing !  "  said  the 
collegian  emphatically,  taking  Maude's  gloved 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Maude,  Maude,  don't  let  him  touch  you !  " 
cried  Gypsy  vehemently,  springing  forward. 
"  Come  back  with  me.  Oh,  what  are  you 
doing,  Maude  Clare?" 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married,"  said  Maude 
Clare,  trying  to  put  on  her  haughtiest  look. 
"  Mr.  Sizer's  father  disapproves  of  the  match ; 
but  when  it  is  all  over,  he  will  relent,  and  then 
we  are  going  home  to  mother's  to  make  it  all 
right  with  hen  (Probably  this  plan  would 
have  been  accurately  carried  out;  the  young 
fellow  being  simply  weak  and  sentimental,  like 
herself.)  Mr.  Sizer  comes  of  a  very  good 
family,  and  I  know  she  won't  object  after  a 
while.  I  should  like  to  know  what  business  it 
is  of  yours,  either,  Gypsy  Breynton,  and  I  '11 
thank  you  to  — "  But  silly  Maude's  hauteur 


broke  into  a  sob,  as  Gypsy  clung  to  her, 
pleading. 

"  See  here,"  interrupted  Maude's  companion. 
"  It  seems  to  me  this  is  my  business,  and  I  say 
she  shall  go.  Come,  Maude,  it  is  n't  safe  to 
stand  here.  Jump  in  —  quick !  " 

Jane,  comprehending  matters  at  the  first 
glance,  had  seen  that  their  hope  of  influencing 
Maude  Clare  was  not  worth  an  instant's  delay, 
and  had  stolen  swiftly  back  to  the  house  for 
help.  Gypsy  was  left  alone  to  plead  with  her. 

"  Come,  Maude,  don't  disgrace  and  make  a 
fool  of  yourself —  don't!  Mr.  Sizer,  won't  you 
just  step  into  your  chaise  and  take  yourself 
off —  no,  I  want  Maude's  hand  on  my  arm. 
Come,  Maude,  come !  " 

Maude  cried  and  hesitated,  went  a  little  way 
with  her,  —  lingered,  —  stopped. 

"Oh,  Maude!"  It  seemed  to  Gypsy  as  if 
Jane  would  never  be  back ;  as  if  hours  passed 
while  Maude  stood  there  sobbing. 

"  Maude,  Maude !  "  called  the  voice  from 
the  chaise.  Maude  turned  her  head 


"  Maude  —  Maude  Clare  !  Maude  Clare !  " 
"  Oh,  let  me  go,  let  me  go !  "  cried  Maude, 
and  tore  herself  from  Gypsy's  arms  to  find 
herself  in  the  stouter  ones  of  Mrs.  McMunn. 
Jane  had  roused  the  Principal,  and  the  Prin 
cipal  had  roused  Chaplain  Goss,  and  the  three 
stood  there  together. 

Mr.  Sizer,  his  horse  and  chaise,  disappeared 
somewhat  faster  than  they  had  come,  and 
Maude  Clare  was  carried  back  to  the  Golden 
Crescent  in  hysterics. 


ISS  MAUDE  CLARE  SMITH 
was  publicly  expelled  from  the 
Golden  Crescent. 
Her  father  came,  a  stern,  indignant  man,  and 
took  her  home.  "  His  daughter  would  go 
back  to  her  mother's  nursery,"  he  said,  "  and 
there  she  would  stay  till  she  gave  evidence  of 
having  outgrown  her  childhood." 

Unhappy  Maude  packed  her  trunks,  and 
bade  the  girls  good-by,  and  clung  to  Gypsy 
sobbing.  "  Her  heart  was  broken,  —  she  was 
Mire  her  heart  was  broken,—  and  she  should 


never  see  a  happy  hour  again,  never!  They 
had  taken  her  away  from  Ben  —  poor  fellow ! 
she  knew  his  heart  would  break  too,  and  she 
should  find  in  the  papers  some  morning  that  he 
had  drowned  himself,  or  hung  himself  with  a 
horrid  rope  —  O-o-o-oh  !  —  and  now  they  were 
taking  her  away  from  Gypsy,  the  only  friend 
she  had  who  ever  cared  anything  about  her, 
and  Gypsy  did  n't  have  half  the  sympathy  with 
her  that  she  expected;  and  oh,  to  think  of 
never  seeing  Ben  again !  The  Shadow  of  her 
Lifetime  was  darkening  down,  and  there  was 
nobody  left  to  understand  or  appreciate.  She 
wished  she  were  dead,  she  did !  —  dead  and 
buried  up  in  a  coffin,  with  her  weary  heart  at 
rest !  She  thought  she  should  n't  live  very 
long,  either;  and  if  Gypsy  heard  of  her  in 
consumption,  she  need  n't  be  surprised." 

Gypsy  kissed  her  and  cried  a  little,  and  when 
the  carriage  had  fairly  rolled  away  with  her, 
went  away  alone  upstairs,  and  cried  a  little 
more.  But  she  was  surprised  to  find  that  she 
did  not  feel  as  badly  as  she  had  expected  to, 

«5 


and  that  when  Jane  came  in  and  kissed  away 
her  tears  she  was  quite  ready  to  be  comforted. 

The  fact  was,  that  Gypsy's  respect  for  Maude 
Clare,  which  Maude  herself  had  been  slowly 
undermining  bit  by  bit  the  last  few  months,  was 
now  gone  "  at  one  fell  swoop,"  and  love  with 
out  respect  is  like  a  house  without  foundation. 
She  felt  sorry  for  Maude  with  a  compassionate, 
superior  sense  of  pity.  Beautiful  Queen  Marie 
had  lost  her  Fidelio ;  the  sweet  allegiance  was 
broken ;  the  pretty  dream  was  gone.  So  she 
wiped  her  eyes,  hoped  Maude  would  not  have 
consumption,  and  learned  her  Virgil  lesson  as 
if  nothing  had  happened. 

i  will  state,  for  the  benefit  of  the  compas 
sionate,  that  Maude  Clare  did  not  have  con 
sumption,  and  I  am  really  afraid  that  she  has 
not  had  even  the  consistency  to  break  her 
heart.  For  I  read  last  week  in  the  newspapers 
an  account  of  a  fashionable  marriage  at  St. 
Paul's:  "Miss  Maude  Clare,  daughter  of  John 

Smith,  Esq.,  of  Boston,  to  Colonel Jones," 

I  think,  aide  on  a  great  General's  staff. 


216 


Truth    compels   me  to  say,  also,  that    Mr. 

Benjamin  Sizer  has  as  yet  neither  drowned 
himself  nor  hung  himself  with  a  horrid  rope. 
When  last  heard  from,  he  was  cheerfully,  and 
to  all  appearance  resignedly,  engaged  in  the 


yacht-racing  business,  in  which  he  was  betting 
away  his  father's  fortune  as  fast  as  he  con 
veniently  could.  Owing  to  the  fact  that  his 
latest-launched  boat  rejoices  in  the  name  of 
The  Fair  Sarah  Popkins  (reported  to  be  that 
of  a  daughter  of  the  Snapberry  Town  Over- 


seer),  I  am  driven  to  infer  that  not  even  the 
ghost  of  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Colonel  Maude 
Clare  Jones  disturbs  his  peaceful  dreams. 

June  days  became  July  days,  and  it  was 
warm  weather  at  the  Golden  Crescent,  —  very 
warm.  Lessons  flagged ;  spirits  drooped ;  girls 
who  feasted  on  cream-cakes  and  lemonade  at 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  cried  with  headache  all 
the  next  day ;  walks  were  few,  and  frolic  less ; 
the  world  gave  itself  up  to  gasping  at  open 
windows,  and  sighing  for  rain. 

One  morning  Phoebe  Hand  did  not  come  to 
recitation.  She  did  not  feel  exactly  well,  Miss 
Ayre  said.  The  next  day  she  felt  no  better. 
Night  came,  and  somebody  went  for  the 
doctor.  Morning  came,  and  the  girls  clus 
tered  in  groups,  talking  about  her.  At  noon, 
a  slow,  low  whisper  went  round  from  one  t« 
another. 

"  They  say  —  hush !  " 

"  He  is  afraid  so  —  hush  !  There  are  somi 
cases  down  town;  don't  speak  of  it." 

"  Awful !     Why  —  hush !  don't  you  know?  w 
218 


It  was  curious  how  everybody  hushed  her 
own  lips  in  speaking  the  word,  as  if  she  could 
not  become  used  to  or  bear  the  sound  of  it.  It 
^ame  in  time  to  Gypsy. 

"What!" 

"  Yes.     Varioloid." 

Jacqueline  Delancey  took  the  first  train  for 
home.  The  other  girls  kept  away  from  "  The 
Parsonage,"  kept  away  from  the  lower  floor; 
faces  were  pale,  and  the  house  was  still. 

"  Her  friends  —  send  for  her  friends,"  said 
Jane.  Mrs.  McMunn,  bewildered  and  fright 
ened,  acted  on  the  suggestion,  and  the  tele 
graph  carried  the  news.  Poor  Phoebe  had 
neither  father  nor  mother  to  be  moved  to 
tender  anxiousness  by  it.  The  crippled  orphan 
was  the  charge  of  an  uncle,  who,  to  tell  the 
truth,  kept  her  at  the  Golden  Crescent  because 
he  did  not  know  what  else  to  do  with  her.  He 
wrote  that  he  was  sorry  to  hear  of  his  niece's 
illness,  and  would  come  on,  if  there  were  any 
occasion;  it  was  really  impossible  for  him  to 
break  certain  business  engagements  which 

1 6  210 


bound  him  for  this  week;  he  felt  sure  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  "  anything  happening  " 
to  Phoebe,  who  had  a  strong  constitution ;  but 
if  there  were  any  danger,  he  wished  to  be  in 
formed  at  once,  and  was  Mrs.  McMunn's  very 
truly  —  Eliphalet  Hand. 

Miss  Ayre  moved  upstairs  with  Mademoi 
selle.  "  She  should  be  glad,"  she  said,  "  to  be 
of  any  assistance,  and  wished  to  do  her  duty, 
but  felt  that  justice  to  the  rest  of  the  girls 
required  that  she  should  not  expose  herself 
rashly."  Mrs.  McMunn  did  the  best  that  she 
could  for  Phoebe,  but  she  was  busy  and  fright 
ened.  They  searched  the  town  for  a  nurse 
who  could  not  come  till  next  week. 

Upon  this,  Jane  Bruce  put  on  slippers  and  a 
soft  dress,  and  went  into  the  sick-room.  Before 
she  went,  she  kissed  Gypsy  and  said  good- 
by. 

"  Oh  dear,  how  can  she  go?  "  cried  the  girls, 
in  frightened  groups ;  "  she  will  have  it,  and 
we  shall  all  have  it  and  die." 

But   Gypsy  held  up  her   head,  with   bright 


eyes,   and   only   said :    "  I    wish    I    were  Jane 
Bruce;  yes,  I  do.     I  call  her  a  hero." 

The  very  next  morning  the  doctor  said  that 
it  was  only  typhus  fever.  But  I  believe  no 
body  thought  that  gentle  Jane,  who  came  out 
laughing  and  crying  together  to  bring  the  news, 
was  any  the  less  a  hero  for  that. 

Phoebe  was  very  sick.  Gypsy  went  in  sev 
eral  times  to  see  her,  but  she  was  asleep  or 
delirious. 

"  She  does  n't  want  to  get  well,"  said  Jane 
one  day,  sadly ;  "  and  if  we  can't  make  her 
want  to,  I  'm  afraid  she  won't." 

"  Does  n't  want  to  get  well !  " 

Happy  Gypsy,  to  whom  life  was  as  sweet  as 
love,  and  the  future  as  bright  as  a  dream, 
opened  her  great  eyes  wide. 

"  No ;  she  is  n't  afraid  to  die,  she  thinks  she 
should  be  happier  in  heaven,  poor  thing !  I  'm 
afraid  Phcebe  has  n't  had  a  pleasant  time  in  this 
world." 

Gypsy,  making  pretence  to  study  through 
the  long  days  (nobody  made  anything  but  pre- 


tence  to  study,  just  now),  thought  about  this. 
Poor  Phoebe !  Why  did  n't  people  make  her 
have  a  pleasant  time?  Well,  why?  She  — 
why  she,  Gypsy  Breynton,  it  had  not  been  her 
business,  had  it?  Whose,  then?  If  anybody's, 
why  not  hers?  If  Jane's,  why  not  hers? 
What  was  that  about  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand 
findeth"?  She  could  not  remember  the  rest; 
but  the  words  were  in  her  mind,  and  they 
turned  themselves  about. 

Phoebe  was  worse.  The  girls  in  their  groups 
grew  grave;  stepped  about  the  house  on  tip 
toe;  spoke  in  whispers.  Miss  Ayre,  looking 
a  little  ashamed  of  herself,  came  down  into 
the  sick-room  and  went  to  work.  The  uncle 
was  sent  for.  The  doctor  came  twice,  three 
times,  four  times  a  day. 

One  afternoon  Jane  came  out  crying,  and  Gypsy 
tried  some  time  to  find  out  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Poor  thing,  poor  thing !  "  said  Jane,  at  last. 
"  She  says  she  has  been  here  a  year  and  a  half, 
and  nobody  has  been  sorry  for  her,  —  nobody 
but  me." 


Gypsy  flushed  to  her  forehead,  and  drew  hd 
breath  in  fast.  She  did  not  answer  Jane,  but 
walked  away  and  sat  down  alone.  She  felt  a3 
if  she  were  sitting  alone  in  the  world,  and  One 
with  finger  pointed  at  her  asked  a  question: 
"  Why  was  nobody  sorry  for  her?  Why ?  " 

That  night  the  sleepers  at  the  Golden  Cres 
cent  were  awakened  by  a  sudden  cry.  Lights 
flickered  past  the  windows,  and  quick  steps 
sounded  on  the  stairs,  and  presently  silence  fell 
again,  and  sleep. 

But  in  the  morning  the  girls,  with  awestruck 
faces,  heard  that  one  lay  dead  in  the  house. 

Mr.  Eliphalet  Hand  came  by  the  early  ex 
press,  and  with  decorous,  grave  face  wished 
that  he  had  been  sent  for  sooner.  Jane  was 
busy  with  flowers,  and  tried,  she  said,  "  to  have 
things  look  as  if  the  poor  child's  mother  were 
there  to  attend  to  them." 

Gypsy,  still  feeling  as  if  that  Finger  pointed 
at  her  and  her  only,  in  all  the  world,  went  in 
by  herself  to  look  at  Phoebe's  quiet  face. 

The   uncle,  with   craoe   upon   his  hat,  took 


away  what  was  left  of  her,  to  his  expensive  lot 
in  Laurel  Hill,  and  went  back  to  those  business 
engagements  which  her  death  had  so  incon 
siderately  broken  in  upon. 

The  girls,  as  is  the  way  with  girls,  now  that 
Phoebe  was  dead,  were  convinced  that  they  had 
always  been  very  fond  of  her,  and  cried  for  her 
profusely. 

Jane  mourned  her  as  a  valued  friend,  and 
Gypsy  thought  of  her  as  an  accusing  angel. 

"  If  she  had  only  got  well,  Jane !  I  would 
have  been  sorry  for  her !  " 

"  But  is  n't  it  a  great  deal  better  to  be  glad 
for  her  now,  dear?"  said  Jane,  looking  off  aj 
the  serene  summer  sky. 


BORDERLAND 
•  CHAPTERS" 


ISS  AYRE  has  the  typhus  fever. 

People   wonder    a     little,    and 
wish     that     the     weather    would 


cool.  The  days  grow  hotter;  the  nights  are 
sultrier  ;  Lou  Armstrong  complains  of  a 
headache.  One  morning  Lou  has  the  typhus 
fever.  The  doctor  looks  grave,  but  is  not 
surprised ;  it  is  an  old  trick  of  the  typhus 
—  "Not  contagious,  ma'am,  not  contagious; 
but  an  epidemic,  without  doubt.  Let  the 
young  ladies  keep  as  much  as  possible  out  of 
doors,  and  I  would  not  advise  their  running  in. 
and  out  of  the  sick-room  unless  they  can  be  of 
some  use."  There  is  little  need  of  any  such 
advice,  did  the  excellent  doctor  but  know  it 


"  The  young  ladies  "  are,  if  possible,  more 
frightened  than  at  the  varioloid  rumour,  and 
the  closest  friendships  will  be  severely  tried  if 
there  is  much  more  of  this. 

But  Lou  is  not  very  sick,  and  Miss  Ayre  is 
better,  and  the  fickle  disease  has  about  made 
up  its  mind  to  take  a  quiet  departure,  but 
pounces  on  one  most  unsuspecting  little  victim, 
by  way  of  farewell. 

Gypsy,  worn  with  the  excitement  of  the 
term,  and  the  heat,  and  the  little  shock  that 
Phoebe's  death  had  given,  wakes  up  one  morn 
ing  feeling  very  weak,  and  thinks  that  she  will 
not  go  into  Shakespeare. 

After  dinner,  Jane  finds  her  with  aching 
head,  and  cheeks  on  fire;  and  at  night  Mrs. 
McMunn  thinks  that  the  doctor  had  better  just 
step  in  and  look  at  her. 

The  doctor  steps  in  to  look  at  her,  and 
Gypsy  is  too  sleepy  to  ask  him  what  he  thinks. 
She  sees  him  pour  out  some  medicine  and  go 
away,  and  by  and  by  she  tells  Jane  that  she 
does  not  need  anything;  she  wishes  that  she 


would  go  down  and  sleep  with  Miss  Holly,  and 
get  a  good  night's  rest.  But  Jane  does  not  go. 
Gypsy  feels  too  weak  to  argue  the  matter, 
and  the  long  night  sets  in.  It  is  a  very  long 
night.  The  lamp  is  left  lighted,  and  she  sees 
the  shadows  flicker  on  the  wall ;  sees  Jane  ly 
ing  quietly  at  her  side,  wondering  a  little  if  she 
wakes  her  every  time  she  turns  over,  tries  to 
lie  still,  but  turns  and  turns  again.  She  sees 
strange  shapes  gliding  slowly  over  the  ceiling, 
walking  beside  and  around  the  bed,  and  cries 
out  sometimes  when  they  touch  her.  She  calls 
—  she  is  afraid  that  she  calls  very  often  for 
water,  and  drinks  fast,  and  drains  the  glass. 
She  wonders  what  thr,.:  it  is,  and  if  the  night 
will  ever  be  gone,  and  if  she  shall  have  an 
excuse  from  composition,  and  who  kindled 
that  fire  in  her  head  that  crackles  so.  What 
did  they  want  of  a  fire  in  such  warm  weather? 
And  how  did  they  ever  put  in  the  kindling- 
wood?  By  and  by,  she  sees  the  lamp  burn 
pale  and  blue,  and  thinks  that  it  must  be  morn 
ing,  and  wonders  if  the  rising-bell  has  rung, 
337 


and  wonders  what  they  sent  the  doctor  in  her& 
for  before  she  was  dressed. 

After  that,  she  does  not  wonder  any  more. 
The  hot  sun  rises  and  rides  on;  sinks,  rises, 
sinks  again,  like  the  great  brass  pendulum  of  a 
clock  —  how  many  times  she  does  not  know  — 
but  she  neither  wonders,  nor  thinks,  nor  cares. 

The  doctor  is  there,  and  Mademoiselle  is 
there,  and  Mrs.  McMunn  is  there.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Munn  has  an  inconvenient  way  of  turning  into 
a  Baldwin  apple  whenever  she  passes  in  front 
of  the  window,  and  Gypsy  is  uncomfortable 
because  she  cannot  twist  the  stem  off. 

It  occurs  to  her  once,  when  she  is  drinking 
her  medicine,  that  it  may  not  be  a  stem,  after 
all,  but  a  waterfall.  Mademoiselle  cries  in  the 
corner,  and  sometimes  she  kisses  Gypsy  softly. 
Jane  is  always  there.  Jane  opens  the  windows, 
Jane  brings  her  medicine,  Jane  fixes  the  ice 
upon  her  forehead.  At  sunset  and  at  sunrise 
Jane's  face  moves  about  in  a  cloud  of  pallid 
gold,  like  a  face  in  an  old  picture.  Gypsy 
watches  it  idly,  and  idly  thinks  of  Peace  May 


228 


thorne,  and  wonders  what  makes  the  two  look 
so  much  alike;  and  if  Peace,  away  in  heaven, 
knows  anything  about  the  Golden  Crescent, 
and  how  hot  the  sun  is  here,  and  how  long  the 
nights. 

They  have  sent  for  her  mother,  though  that 
she  does  not  know.  But  the  letter  missed,  and 
the  telegram  was  delayed ;  it  is  many  days  be 
fore  she  comes,  and  still  Jane  moves  about  the 
room  in  the  cloud  of  pallid  gold. 

One  night  the  doctor  stands  with  his  back  to 
the  bed,  talking  with  Mrs.  McMunn.  Gypsy 
has  a  dim  idea  that  they  think  she  is  asleep, 
and  dimly  she  seems  to  hear  him  say,  — 

"  The  case  disappoints  me.  The  chances  of 
recovery  are  ve-ry  small." 

But  she  does  not  think  much  about  it,  nor 
care.  Presently  Jane  comes  in  crying,  and  she 
wonders  what  is  the  matter  with  her.  Perhaps 
she  has  the  headache,  too. 

The  great  brass  pendulum  has  swung  up  and 
swung  down  once  after  that,  over  the  crescent 
of  green  maples,  and  then  the  door  is  opened 


as  nobody  has  opened  the  door  since  Gypsy 
has  lain  there,  and  some  one  lies  down  softly 
by  her  on  the  pillow,  and  lips  touch  her  fore 
head  as  no  lips  have  touched  her  all  the  sum 
mer  long. 

"  Ye-es,"  Gypsy  says  sleepily;  "that  is 
nice.  My  head  ached  so  last  night,  I  cc^ld  n't 
talk  with  you.  I  've  been  a  little  —  a  horrid 
little  villain — all  this"  —  the  thought  wanders 
away,  and  the  lips  kiss  down  the  words  with 
their  rare  touch,  and  all  the  world  seems  to 
grow  cool  and  green  and  still. 

After  a  time,  it  may  be  longer  or  shorter,  a 
thought  comes  to  Gypsy;  it  is  sharp  and  clear; 
it  strikes  her  as  if  steel  struck  her,  and  she  cries 
out  with  it. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  mother !  I  don't 
want  to  die  !  I  don't  want  to  die  !  " 

Her  mother's  arms  just  gather  her  in  and 
hold  her,  and  nobody  says  a  word. 

It  was  Mademoiselle  over  in  her  corner,  who 
sobbed  aloud.  Mademoiselle  hovers  about  the 
bed  in  these  days,  with  red  eyes  and  gentle 


touch ;  begs  leave  to  change  the  ice  and  bring 
fresh  water;  sends  Jane  and  the  worn  mother 
away  to  rest;  insists  on  taking  the  night- 
watch  and  running  for  the  doctor.  Poor 
Mademoiselle  carries  her  rosary  in  her  hand, 
and  tells  over  Aves  and  Paternosters  between 
the  drops  of  medicine,  wetting  the  beads  with 
tears. 

But  by  and  by  the  brass  pendulum  ceases  to 
swing  over  the  maple,  and  the  world  goes  out 


NE  morning  it  moves  again  a 
little,  —  slowly,  faintly  ;  the 
leaves  of  the  Crescent  shine 
out  beyond  the  window  ;  Jane's  face,  and 
every  face,  glides  about  again  in  pallid  gold. 

So  Gypsy  cries  for  very  weakness  and  thank 
fulness  and  joy,  and  cries  herself  to  sleep. 

They  do  not  let  her  talk  for  many  days,  but 
one  morning,  feeling  very  br.ght  and  strong 
after  her  beef  tea,  she  wakes  from  a  bit  of  a 
nap,  and  finds  Mademoiselle  sitting  alone  by 
her  bed.  Mademoiselle  is  correcting  exercise?, 
with  her  rosary  twined  about  her  wrist 


Gypsy  watches  her  for  a  while  in  thoughtful 
silence,  and  suddenly  raises  herself  a  little  on 
her  elbow,  and  speaks,  — 

"  Mademoiselle  !  " 

"  Oh !  Why,  Miss  Gypsy !  You  must  n't 
talk,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  I  must  talk,  Mademoiselle.  My  fate 
cries  out  against  this  deaf  and  dumb  treatment, 
and  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body  as 
hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerves  !  "  (Shake 
speare.)  "  So,  if  you  please,  I  want  you  to 
listen  to  me,  and  answer  me  a  question." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear ;  if  la  bonne  mere  will 
not  —  " 

"  Oh,  la  bonne  m£re  won't  say  a  word. 
Now,  Mademoiselle,  I  want  to  know  what  ever 
made  you  take  a  fancy  to  such  a  hor-rid  little 
thing,  and  come  in  and  take  care  of  me  this 
way  while  I  've  been  sick." 

Mademoiselle  drops  the  exercises,  and  her 
eyelids  quiver  a  little,  — 

"  N'importe,  n'importe,  my  dear  I  like  you, 
C'est  assez,  n'  est-ce  pas?  " 

•33 


"  I  suppose  it  will  have  to  be  assez,  if  you 
have  n't  any  better  reason." 

"  Mais !  I  have  one  reason,"  said  Made 
moiselle,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Helas !  Pauvre  moi ! 
pauvre  moi !  " 

Gypsy  watched  the  French  teacher  in  com 
passionate  wonder.  What  was  she  "  poor " 
for?  Did  she  need  anybody  to  be  sorry  for 
her,  too?  "  I  wonder,"  she  said  softly. 

"  I  go  to  tell  you,"  said  Mademoiselle, 
squeezing  her  handkerchief  into  her  eyes, —  "  I 
go  to  tell  you  in  a  minute.  II  fait  mal  aux 
yeux,  this  writing.  Voila!  You  care  to  hear 
then  about  poor  Mademoiselle, — you?  I  think 
nobody  care  to  hear  about  Mademoiselle." 

Gypsy  turned  upon  the  pillow  restlessly. 

"  It  is  one  little  story,"  said  Mademoiselle, 
half  under  her  breath.  "  One  tres  little  story. 
I  tell  it  in  not  many  words.  I  have  one  petite 
sceur  —  one  little  sister;  just  one  little  sister. 
I  have  no  thing  else.  I  leave  la  mere  et  le 
pere  in  two  graves  at  Havre.  La  petite  sceur. 
she  is  all  there  is  left.  We  come  to  Amerique 


deux  ans,  two  years  ago.  La  petite  soeur 
look  like  you  —  hair,  eyes,  mouth  —  she 
look  like  you.  I  love  la  petite  soeur,  —  I 
love  you." 

"And  where  is  she,  the  little  sister?  "  asked 
Gypsy,  waiting  for  more.  "  Why  did  n't  she 
come  here  with  you?  Is  she  dead?" 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu,  non,"  said  Mademoiselle, 
very  low.  "  If  it  were  that  she  were  dead,  I 
go  not  to  cry  so  many  tears  in  the  dark. 
Pauvre  petite !  She  have  one  fine  voice,  elle 
aime  chanter  et  danser;  she  not  let  me  pay 
monaie  for  the  books  and  clothes  here  at  the 
school.  She  go  to  —  to  —  what  you  call  it? 
to  support  herself  at  the  Ope>a.  I  write  the 
letters  to  her.  She  write  to  me.  Last  winter 
I  write  tres  manier  lettres,  but  I  nevaire  hear 
one  word.  I  go  to  Boston  to  the  Op^ra,  and 
they  tell  me  she  have  gone.  She  have  run 
away.  I  nevaire  find  her.  I  nevaire  see  her 
any  more.  Pauvre  petite  sceur !  I  am  tire's 
lonely.  Nobodie  speak  to  me  or  cry  with  me. 
Mademoiselle  Bruce  is  ver  kind,  ver  kind,  but 


335 


I  tell  not  her  about  la  petite  soeur.  I  tell  not 
anybodie.  Mais !  que  c'est  triste,  cela !  " 

Gypsy's  pillow  was  wet  and  salt,  and  Gypsy's 
face  was  hidden. 

"  Mademoiselle?"  she  said  softly. 

"  Well,  my  dear." 

"  I  want  you  to  kiss  me." 

Mademoiselle  climbed  upon  the  bed,  and  put 
her  arms  about  Gypsy's  neck,  and  kissed  her 
sobbing. 

"  Make  believe  I  am  la  petite  sceur,  all  good 
and  safe  and  happy,  just  for  a  minute,  Made 
moiselle.  Come,  I  will  kiss  you.  Did  she 
kiss  you  so?  " 

Poor  Mademoiselle  cried  very  hard,  and 
Gypsy  let  her,  thinking  it  was  best.  By  and 
by,  when  she  grew  quiet,  Gypsy  lay  back  wea 
rily  upon  the  pillow  and  said,  — 

"  Mademoiselle,  would  you  please  to  forgive 
me!  " 

"  Forgive !  Ma  che're,  I  have  no  thing  to 
forgive,  moi !  " 

"  Yes,   you    have,"    said    Gypsy,    decidedly. 
»*> 


"/  know,  if  you  don't.  I  know  that  if  I 
had  n't  been  just  a  selfish  old  thing,  bent  on 
having  a  good  time,  I  might  have  made  you 
tell  me  about  the  petite  soeur  long  ago,  and  I 
might  have  gone  up  and  cried  with  you  in  the 
dark,  and  you  'd  have  felt  better,  would  n't  you, 
Mademoiselle?  Yes,  I  know  you  would,  and 
now  it 's  all  over  and  gone,  and  too  late,  and 
everything,  and  perhaps  I  sha'n't  come  back  to 
the  Golden  Crescent,  and  —  oh,  dear !  Made 
moiselle,  will  you  write  to  me,  and  let  me  write 
to  you,  and  let  me  try  to  make  up  ever  so 
little  bit?" 

Poor  Mademoiselle  tried  with  grateful  tears 
to  speak,  but  Mrs.  Breynton  came  in  just  then, 
and  the  talk  was  broken  up. 

Gypsy  said  nothing  about  it  to  any  one  for 
a  while,  but  one  day,  —  one  of  the  cooler  days 
in  which  her  strength  came  fast,  —  finding  her 
self  alone  for  an  hour  with  Jane,  she  intrusted 
to  her  confidence  the  story  of  the  poor  little 
sister  who  "  have  run  away." 

"Poor    Mademoiselle,    poor    Mademoiselle! 

337 


And  to  think  I  never  noticed  nor  thought !  It 
just  fits  in  with  Phoebe,  under  that  Finger  that 
kept  pointing  before  I  was  sick.  Jane  Bruce, 


I  wonder  what  has  been  the  matter  with  me 
this  year?" 

Jane  kissed  her,  smiling,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  And  here  you  come  on  top  of  it  all,"  said 


Gypsy,  trying  to  laugh,  but  winking  savagely. 
"  You  —  you  blessed  old  dear  !  I  should  call 
you  a  saint,  only  I  never  had  but  one  saint, 
and  that  was  my  poor  Peace  Maythorne,  long 
ago  at  home;  such  a  sweet,  lame  girl,  Jane, 
and  she  is  dead,  you  know,  so  nobody  else  can 
be  just  that.  But  you  are  a  blessed  old  girl, 
and  I  Ve  been  all  the  whole  year  finding  it  out. 
I  was  so  taken  up  with  Maude  Clare,  and  you 
did  n't  say  much ;  why  did  n't  you  talk  to  me, 
as  you  did  with  some  of  the  others?" 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  care  about  it,  you 
know;  I  did  not  want  to  be  in  the  way,"  said 
Jane,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  self-respect.  Gypsy's 
pale  cheeks  crimsoned  faintly. 

"  The  little  vil  —  " 

But  Jane  kissed  away  the  rest  of  the  word. 

"  Well,  I  've  found  you  out  now,  and  if  I 
ever  let  you  go  again,  you  '11  know  it !  And  so 
many  nights  as  I  left  you  to  walk  by  yourself, 
or  all  alone  after  study-hours !  Jane,  dear,  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  now,  if  you  don't  mind 
about  your  black  dress." 


It  was  not  all  neglect  on  Gypsy's  part,  that 
ahe  had  never  asked  this  question  before. 
£irls,  and  such  merry  girls,  shrink  from  the 
^ight  of  distress  that  they  can  neither  under 
stand  nor  help.  Then  Jane  had  kept  her  sad 
ness  very  quietly  to  herself;  it  was  something 
of  which  she  neither  sought  nor  cared  to  speak. 

Jane  was  still  for  a  moment  after  Gypsy 
spoke,  and  then  she  crept  upon  the  bed,  lying 
so  that  Gypsy  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Just  my  brother,  dear.  All  the  brother  I 
ever  had.  He  was  in  the  army.  There  's  no 
body  now  but  mamma  and  me.  He  has  been 
gone  two  years,  and  sometimes,  Gypsy — oh, 
sometimes,  it  seems  as  if  it  were  only  two 
days !  I  do  not  know  that  it  will  ever  seem 
any  more.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  get  used 
to  it.  When  I  first  came,  I  couldn't  laugh 
and  play  round  with  the  rest,  and  I  used  to 
stay  up  here  alone ;  there  was  nobody  to  find 
that  out  and  stop  me,  but  by  and  by  I  thought 
perhaps  he  would  n't  like  it ;  perhaps  I  was 
disappointing  him  a  little;  so  I  tried  to  cheer 


340 


and  go  about  and  listen  to  the  girls.  After 
that,  I  did  n't  seem  to  be  of  so  much  conse« 
quence,  you  know,  and  it  was  easier.  It 's 
never  the  less  lonely  if  one  thinks,  but  one 
need  n't  think  all  the  time,  you  see,  dear." 

Something  in  the  quiet  voice  with  which 
these  words  were  spoken,  awed  Gypsy.  It 
made  her  feel  weak  and  small  and  young. 
She  felt  by  an  instinct,  that  she  had  no  word 
of  help  for  Jane;  Jane  was  older  than  she,  as 
well  as  better ;  so  she  tried  to  comfort  her  only 
by  touch  and  silence. 

"  If  you  had  only  told  me !  If  I  had  only 
let  you  tell  me !  "  she  said  at  last.  "  I  don't 
suppose  that  it  could  have  made  any  difference 
to  you,  except  that  I  should  have  loved  you  the 
very  first  minute  I  heard  it  —  but  it  would  have 
made  me  remember;  it  would  have  carried  me 
back;  it  would  have  stopped  me.  Jane  Bruce, 
I  believe  I  Ve  found  out  what  is  part  of  the 
matter  with  me  this  year ;  why,  I  Ve  been  just 
like  a  silly  little  canary,  that  finds  the  cage 
door  open,  and  flies  out  and  loses  his  way; 


941 


why,  I  have  n't  learned  my  lessons,  nor  thought 
of  a  thing  but  taffy,  and  Maude  Clar<*  and 
good  times." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  just  sure  of  the  word,  you 
see.  Hand  me  the  dictionary,  will  you?  " 

Jane  brought  the  dictionary,  laughing,  and 
Gypsy  looked  into  it,  and  shut  it  up  with  a 
snap. 

"  Reback,  —  why,  no !  Let  me  see.  Re 
action.  That 's  it.  Reaction." 

Jane  did  not  understand. 

"  WeU,  I  mean  you  shall.  I  believe  I  Ve 
bounced  up  like  a  ball,  from  that  year  when  I 
had  to  think  and  plan  and  worry  about  Tom. 
I  never  told  you  —  no,  and  I  wish  I  had. 
Sometime  when  I  am  stronger,  perhaps  I  will. 
But  it  was  a  year  I  don't  like  to  remember,  and 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  stretched  on  pulleys  at 
the  end  of  it.  He  went  to  the  war,  too,  at  the 
last,  and  he  came  home ;  but  I  thought  once  he 
never  would,  so  you  see,  Jane,  I  know  how  to 

be  a  little  bit  sorry.     May  I  kiss  you?" 
242 


"  A  wasted  year !  "  said  Gypsy,  half  to  her 
self,  after  a  silence.  "A  whole,  long,  wasted 
year !  That 's  what  it  is.  Lessons,  and 
Phoebe,  and  Mademoiselle,  and  you ;  and  I 
don't  doubt  fifty  other  things  that  I  haven't 
found  out.  If  I  could  creep  back  into  some 
little  corner  of  an  October  day,  without  any 
body's  knowing  it,  and  begin  all  over  again! 
Jane  Bruce !  " 

"  Why,  Gypsy,  you  look  frightened." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  becomes  of  a  wasted 
year,  when  you  get  through  with  all  the  years? 
I  believe  I  am  frightened." 

"  Perhaps  one  might  do  enough  in  another 
year  to  —  well,  I  suppose  not  make  up,  ex 
actly,  but  something  like  it,"  said  Jane, 
thinking. 

"  Anyway,"  observed  Gypsy,  after  a  pause, 
"  I  Ve  found  out  who  Number  i  is,  and  I 
should  like  to  tell  Maude  Clare  so." 

"Number  I?" 

"  Yes.     Curing   headaches,    being   sorry   for 

this    girl,    and    glad    for    that    girl,   and    not 

243 


ashamed  to  say  the  other  girl  does  wrong. 
Going  to  walk  with  poor  dead  lame  girls.  Oh, 
I  don't  mean  they  were  dead  when  they  went  to 
walk,  dear.  Being  '  ver'  kind '  to  Mademoi 
selle;  learning  your  lessons;  behaving;  walk 
ing  right  up  to  an  awful  varioloid  that  nobody 
else  would  go  near.  Nursing  a  little  villain  till 
you  're  as  white  as  a  ghost.  Always  some 
other  people;  never  yourself.  That  is  what  I 
call  Number  i." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  puzzled  Jane. 

"  That  is  quite  likely,  my  dear."  Gypsy  is 
fairly  tired  out  by  this  time,  and  falls  asleep 
before  Jane  can  ask  another  question. 

Time  slips  away  fast  when  one  is  getting 
well ;  Gypsy  can  hardly  believe  her  senses 
when  she  finds  herself  one  bright  morning 
dressed,  and  packed,  and  starting  for  home. 
Her  mother,  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  man 
agement  at  the  Golden  Crescent,  has  told  her 
that  she  will  probably  not  come  back ;  so  thfs 
is  a  last  good-by. 

Mrs.    McMunn,    with    her    waterfall     more 


crooked  than  ever,  is  sorry  to  part  with  her, 
very ;  she  has  been  a  good  pupil,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  a  little  levity,  very  natural,  I  'm  sure, 
Mrs.  Breynton,  to  her  years;  and  she  would 
like  to  kiss  her  good-by  if  Miss  Gypsy  has  no 
objections. 

Josephine  Courtis  sheds  a  few  honest  tears, 
and  apologises  for  them  in  a  little  slang.  Jack 
Delancey  (whose  parents  sent  her  back  when 
the  varioloid  turned  out  to  be  typhus)  exhibits 
her  diamond  deftly  in  shaking  hands,  wonder 
ing  if  Mrs.  Breynton  notices  it.  Lou  Arm 
strong,  and  "  poor  Miss  Holly,"  the  Colchetts, 
and  all  the  girls  are  there  upon  the  steps  to  see 
her  off;  they  are  going  themselves  most  of 
them  to-day,  for  the  term  is  over.  Mary  Blunt 
tucks  a  paper  of  peppermint  in  through  the 
carriage  window  at  the  last  minute,  and  is 
"sorry  that  she  hasn't  some  nut-candy;  but 
the  nut-candy  is  in  a  state  of  compound  frac 
ture, —  a  little  accident;  Mrs.  Holt  sat  down 
on  it." 

Mademoiselle  says  good-by  sadly,  and  calls 

»4S 


Gypsy  her  "petite  sceur,  ma  chtre  petite  f  and 
reminds  her  of  the  letters  that  are  to  be  written. 

Miss  Ayre  extends  the  tip  of  a  cold  hand, 
and  hopes  that  Miss  Breynton  will  review  her 
Latin  grammar  through  the  vacation;  it  will  be 
excellent  practice. 

Mrs.  Holt  and  Dolly  and  Nancy  look  on 
in  the  background,  and  Mr.  Schleiermacher 
and  the  Chaplain  were  taken  leave  of  last  night. 

Nobody  remains  but  Jane,  standing  by  the 
carriage,  who  has  a  long  kiss  all  to  herself,  but 
not  a  sorrowful  one ;  for  Jane  is  to  make  a  visit 
at  Yorkbury  the  last  of  August,  and  that  is  not 
Jong  to  wait. 

So  the  carriage  rumbles  away,  and  the 
figures  on  the  steps  grow  dim,  and  the  Golden 
Crescent  is  out  of  sight  at  last. 

Gypsy  is  inclined  to  stop  the  coachman  and 
turn  about  to  tell  Dolly  that  she  may  have  that 
crinoline,  and  ask  the  girls  if  they  are  not  seri 
ously  glad  to  be  rid  of  such  a  horrid  —  but  her 
mother  thinks  that  they  might  be  late  to  the 
train, 


"  Is  n't  it  going  to  tire  you  all  out  to  travel 
with  a  little  villain  so  far?"  asks  Gypsy,  lean 
ing  back  on  the  cushioned  seat  to  hide  rather  a 
regretful  face;  she  has  had  a  pleasant  time  at 
the  Golden  Crescent,  after  all. 

Her  mother  thinks  that  she  can,  by  making 
up  her  mind  to  it,  endure  the  little  villain,  at 
least  for  a  day;  so  presently  they  reach  the 
station,  and  the  train  is  just  coming  in. 

Gypsy,  turning  to  take  a  last  look  at  Snap- 
berry  through  the  car-window,  sees  the  little 
coachman  twirling  his  moustache,  and  Mr. 
Short  giving  Colonisation  tracts  to  Deacon 
Popkins.  The  Deacon  catches  sight  of  her  as 
the  train  puffs  off,  and  throws  himself  back  in 
his  buggy,  and  laughs  till  he  cries;  which  I 
believe  that  excellent  Town  Officer  has  never 
failed  to  do,  every  time  he  has  seen  her,  since 
the  day  on  which  they  went  to  the  Poor-house 
together. 

The  Deacon  is  out  of  sight  now,  and  the 
roof  of  the  Golden  Crescent,  and  the  last 
traces  of  Snapberry.  Gypsy  says  Hurrah  for 
347 


home,  and  her  magnificent  old  mountains! 
then  wants  to  know  if  that  is  slang;  is  sure 
that  she  never  shall  learn  to  be  proper,  and  is 
convinced  that  she  is  a  hopeless  case,  and 
ought  to  be  pinched  a  little.  So  she  pinches 
herself  a  little,  and  then  down  goes  her  head  — 
a  bit  tired  —  upon  her  mother's  shoulder,  and 
she  wanders  away  into  a  wide-awake  dream  of 
sweet  content. 


A     000138264 


